The next day was my appointed one for rejoining the battalion, and the wife accompanied me to the station in the early afternoon. Here again, I avoided the Chief – in fact, the police office seemed closed down entirely – and the wife offered to show me the famous Soldiers and Sailors Buffet on platform eight. I of course had my uniform on, so the ladies inside were pleased to see me, and to serve me tea and a bun, which I did not want, having lately eaten sausages and fried potatoes in Thorpe-on-Ouse, but they were particularly keen to see Lydia, who talked to them all until my train time.
We naturally had a bit of a choky moment as I leant down to her from the carriage window. With the train pulling away, she called out, ‘I’ll send you a hamper, Jim!’ I believe because it seemed to her the safest thing to say just then.
PART TWO
France
Albert: December 1915
We went round the houses to get to France: Southampton to Le Havre (a four-hour Channel crossing) as against the holiday-makers’ route, Dover to Calais (two hours).
Dover to Calais, Oamer said, was ‘taken’, what with all the men and supplies going over every day. Oliver Butler, who was sick on the steamer, moaned about it, and Oamer (who recommended a pipe for seasickness) said, ‘Anyone would think you wanted to get there fast.’
But there wasn’t much talk on the way. The day before leaving Hull, we’d all been questioned in the adjutant’s room on the ship Rievaulx Abbey by the regimental police of the battalion. These were a couple of quiet NCOs who seemed embarrassed at the whole business. One of them – a bloke called Brewster or Baxter (he was not the sort whose name stuck) – went so far as to say that he felt sorry for us chaps. He and his mate wore the letters ‘MP’ in red on black brassards, but didn’t have the red cap covers that marked out the Military Mounted Police as men to be feared. Captain Quinn had sat in on the questioning as our ‘accused adviser’. None of us had yet been accused, but this term was rather anxious-making. Also, we had been told that the case papers would be passed on to the Military Mounted Police for their consideration. There would be no public inquest, the military activities going ahead on Spurn being hush-hush, but we were informed that an army doctor had found the cause of death to have been a blow to the head, or rather to the eye. It was admitted on all sides that Harvey might have jumped, or fallen, into the sea, and then been clashed against the sea wall. He might have collided with an iron ladder that was fixed to it, before becoming entangled in the stray length of rope. This theory was favourite among the section – or so we all pretended.
As far as I knew, no man had yet admitted being up in the night. I myself said little more to the regimental police than I had to Oamer in the Hope and Anchor. I did not try to cast suspicion on any man. I admitted the tussle with Dawson, but made light of this as far as possible: ‘Horseplay. We were just larking about. I admit we’d had a drink taken.’ I did mention that I had gained a cut on my knuckle in the skirmish, although I held off from saying exactly how.
But Quinn, like Oamer, had been mindful of the fact that I was a trained detective, and after saying, ‘It’s all too perplexing’ over and over, had taken me into his confidence: ‘What about Private Dawson?’ he said. ‘Apparently the man fights like a tiger when drunk.’ I made some remark of a neutral kind.
Marching us off the ship, Oamer had assured us that the matter did not seem to merit further investigation, and that Quinn believed it would not come to anything; that he would do his best to write down the death as a suicide.
At Le Havre, early in the afternoon, it was snowing on the grey docks, but as fast as the snow came down it melted. The troop train we boarded was made up of coaches from every system in France – not their best specimens either, but we’d heard that many blokes had gone to the front in horse wagons, so we were better off than some.
‘It’s vestibuled throughout,’ said Tinsley, as we found a compartment.
‘But springless,’ said Oamer, as we creaked away from the station, almost directly on boarding. I was sitting with Oamer (with pipe, poetry book and magazine), Tinsley (with note book on knee, observing the railway scene), Scholes (who sat silent), and a reasonably cheery Dawson. Presently, Scholes and Dawson seemed to doze. At intervals, Tinsley would make a note and a remark, usually to do with railways. The trains we passed seemed to be civilian-operated, but approaching Rouen, Tinsley twice observed ‘Hospital train’, and the second time, Scholes stirred and shook his head sorrowfully. Tinsley also made a note whenever he saw one of ‘ours’ – that is, the engines run by the Railway Operating Division of the Royal Engineers.
When there was nothing to see but dull, flat fields under grey sky and falling rain, Tinsley said, ‘Look at that farmer – funny sort of cart he’s got.’
‘He’s a peasant, in fact,’ said Oamer.
I happened to have writing paper and one of the franked army envelopes on me, and I had the idea of killing a bit of time writing a letter to the Chief, since I was feeling rather guilty at not having looked him up in York. In the letter, I explained briefly what had happened on Spurn, and told him I thought any promotion would be held back as a result. I suppose I was half hoping he’d step in on my behalf, but I knew he didn’t really have any authority to do so.
At a spot called Romescamps, there was a great military siding, and I pointed out some North Eastern Railway engines to Tinsley.
‘I wish we could go slower through here,’ he said.
‘We’re going slowly enough, mate,’ said Dawson, who’d now stirred.
Just then we lurched to a halt in a mass of sidings.
‘This is likely to be a two hours’ business,’ said Oamer.
He said he was getting out to stretch his legs. He had a letter of his own to post, and offered to take mine, so I addressed it: ‘Chief Inspector Weatherill, York Station Police Office, York, Yorkshire, England’ and handed it over. I noticed that he paid no attention to the address as he took the letter.
In fact, we were only one hour at Romescamps, during which Tinsley and I climbed down, and looked over the wilderness of rainswept sidings. Tinsley was very taken by the French engines. ‘Look at that!’ he’d say, ‘Square funnel! What I wouldn’t give to have a camera just now.’
I told him he’d very likely be shot if he started taking pictures here. We both saluted as we passed Captain Quinn, who’d also climbed down from the better class of carriage in which he’d been riding. He was speaking to some of his fellow officers, and I heard him say, ‘I believe it’s snowing heavily in Scotland at the present time.’
When we climbed back up, I reported this remark to Dawson, who said, ‘Snowing heavily in Scotland, eh? That’s unfortunate.’
Oamer came in on the joke, saying, ‘Captain Quinn does have a penchant for that word. But over here it’s going to have to be in French, thus malheureusement.’
Dawson shook his head, saying, ‘Don’t see him getting his chops around that.’
We set off again, and Tinsley said to Oamer, ‘We’re for Albert, aren’t we?’ which he pronounced like Queen Victoria’s husband.
‘Whatever makes you think that?’ said Oamer, for our destination had not been officially disclosed. But Tinsley’s habit of cocking his ear to every rumour where the subject was railways had paid dividends, and he blurted it all out, as Scholes listened, horrified.
Albert, Tinsley said, was a ‘rather forward’ railhead. It was in the Somme department of France, and had taken a lot of punishment from shellfire, but was still heavily populated by French civilians and Tommies both. We were approaching it from the south-west, via Amiens. It was not possible to approach it from the north-east, via Arras, which would have been quicker, because the line between Arras and Albert had been cut by the German advance.
‘Hold on,’ said Scholes, ‘how far is Albert from the front?’
‘About three miles,’ said Oamer, who by his answer told us that everything Tinsley said had been true.
In the light of this knowle
dge, silence fell again for a while.
We were slightly bucked by the sight of Amiens station. There were plenty of soldiers but plenty of civilians as well, and some very pretty samples of French womanhood.
‘Look like cats they do, the French doxies,’ said Dawson.
‘And is that a good thing?’ enquired Oamer.
‘It is to my mind,’ said Dawson.
But I believed Oamer to be indifferent on the point.
The next station was all army, however. It had no name, but Tinsley knew it for a spot called Corbie. Two minutes after we pulled out, we saw a wrecked cottage. After a few more of the same, Dawson said, ‘House roofs seem to be at a premium around here.’
It wasn’t just the houses; the trees were broken too, and the fields under the darkening sky were fields of mud, with clusters of ponds everywhere – ugly black ponds that might have held monstrous creatures. We came through another mass of sidings, and beyond these were whole crowds of wrecked buildings, as if they’d all banded together out of sympathy with one another – a wrecked town, in fact.
‘Albert,’ said Oamer.
‘Jesus Christ,’ said Scholes.
Albert station had survived, which only made it look the more ridiculous. You thought: why does this place merit a station? Why don’t the trains just go on until they come to a proper place? As I climbed down, with the engine blowing off up front, and all the blokes shouting, I saw that the station building was like a town hall, with a clock tower, and the time on the clock was about right: six p.m. But that was the only thing that was right. At the sight of this place, I was scared shitless but I wasn’t about to lie quaking on the ground. The only thing to do was muster around the ‘E’ Company sergeant major as directed. After we’d told off into our companies, a silence fell. The engine had stopped blowing off steam, and was now simmering; all the slamming of doors had stopped. A new noise could be heard, and every man was listening to it. This was the most infernal and continuous crashing, screeching, howling. In this noise there was everything bad: old ladies screaming, mighty waves breaking, whole train crashes happening out of sight in the sky.
‘Hold on a minute,’ said Scholes, who was standing alongside me, a look of horror on his face.
Two minutes later, we were marching, in extended order, towards the noise. Oliver Butler was behind me. ‘Got the collywobbles, Private Stringer?’ he called out. ‘It’s got me spooked, I don’t mind admitting.’
His brothers were alongside him. As a great jabbering arose amid the stream of din, I glanced back at them. ‘Oh mother,’ they said in unison … Only they were laughing at the same time.
We went first through the centre of Albert. It wasn’t a ghost town because – Tinsley had been right – the ruins were all ram-packed with Frenchers and soldiers. It was as though everyone had decided: All right, the place is wrecked, but let’s pretend it’s not. In what appeared to be the central square of Albert, a lorry rumbled past us with trailer attached. The trailer was full of Tommies, and one of them called out, ‘Just arrived mate? Rather a hot shop, this is.’
And it would be Scholes that he’d spoken to. Scholes was breathing too fast.
‘I’m not good here,’ he said, ‘I’m strained all to pieces.’
I was thinking it would have been well worth jumping in the sea off Spurn to avoid, but I said, ‘It’s not like this all the time, you know’, and as we approached the noise it was changing, the screaming din being replaced by periodic bangs, with sometimes the more continuous noise of a machine gun, like a sort of virtuoso player in an orchestra. All the while, the sky would continually change colour, from a deep blue, to green, to red, and back.
We left Albert behind, guided by Oamer and the battalion billeting officer. This bloke was coming with us rather than any other unit because we would be in the furthest billet, the one nearest the front, and I thought: is this deliberate? Are we being put in harm’s way because, after what happened on Spurn, we’re considered a liability? Were the Brass, or the regimental police, trying to ‘sweat’ us, so that a confession or an accusation might emerge?
We went along rough chalk roads that shone with a moon-like glow in the darkness. Some of the fields were ploughed, as far as I could make out, but others contained upended or broken carts, as though the farmer had suddenly come to his senses and fled the district. There were more of the ponds I’d seen from the train, and I seemed to make out black flying things skimming back and forth across them, like evil sprites or spirits. At one point, I thought, we are now entering a wood, but the wood never came on. We just kept walking through widely spaced, broken trees.
We were still in the wood, if that’s what it was, when the billeting officer came to a halt. He indicated a large building and a small one, the only survivors of a group of ruins. He said, ‘You’re barely a quarter mile from the reserve trenches, so it’s pretty well sniped by the whizzbangs.’
‘Nice,’ said Dawson.
At that moment, I wanted to get my head down, no matter where. I turned towards the main building, and saw in the moonlight a French word, or part of one, painted in a sort of red, fairground lettering. The word was: ‘T–VERNE’. Dawson was looking the same way. ‘There’s an “A” missing,’ he was saying, frowning; then he turned to me with a grin. ‘It’s a pub, mate!’
We went inside and got some hurricane lamps lit. It was a pub, of sorts: there was a bar, with posters of some strange-shaped green bottles behind it (although no actual bottles). The place was filled with a petrol-like smell, and the floor crowded with furniture – couches and cupboards mainly, that had perhaps been rescued from the ruins round about. In one corner was a trapdoor leading down to a cellar. Dawson was all for kipping down there, but the billeting officer, addressing Oamer, said that if a five-nine hit us directly we were done for anyway. There was no food in the place. That would come in the night, we were told, together with our trench kit. Meanwhile we had our water bottles, and Oamer handed out some hard biscuits. He made a sort of cubbyhole for himself behind the bar, and rest of us lay on the floor at crazy angles, one couch and one cupboard apiece.
I was asleep in an instant, and I dreamt of a ghost train. A train made of light, and not running on rails, but flying through the air at a great speed. I woke with a start when the noise of its chuffing became faster than was possible, and I sat up on my couch. The noise was still there. Scholes was staring across at me, mortified. The twins were awake and listening too, both with heads propped on hands. They had two candle stubs burning between them. One said to the other: ‘Heavy shower’s coming.’ Lined against the wall beyond them were picks and shovels, and other bits of kit that had not been there when I’d turned in. I noticed an opened window. All this I saw in less than a second. The shell hit, and the ghost train crashed, leaving a darkness and a ringing in my ear. The concussion had blown out the candles. I heard Oamer’s voice, quite steady from behind the bar: ‘Speculative, I would say. Back to sleep, boys.’
If I did sleep, then I was woken soon after by another noise. Sitting upright, it took me a second to work out what it had been. It was a fart. One of the twins had let one go, and was putting his head under the blanket to sample the smell.
‘It’s quite a stifler,’ he said, making a surprisingly good job of putting on an officer-like voice. I looked at him – I believe it was Roy – and he most unexpectedly met my eye across the dark room, and spoke back: ‘What are you gaumin’ at?’
He looked tough as nails just then, and I thought: this pair spook me no end; I wouldn’t mind if a shell put their lights out before too long. I eyed Roy, who’d gone back to larking with his brother; then came a machine gun rattle. There was no dream about it; the war was still there, a quarter of a mile off. It had introduced itself to us the night before, and now waited for us to pay a call.
An hour later, with bacon, bread and tea inside us, we approached the trenches, Oamer in the lead. He told us that we’d been guarded in the night by sentries from the battali
on, but from now on we’d be doing our own sentry-go. Battalion HQ was near a spot called Aveluy. Our billet, the tavern, was near a spot called Méaulte. Captain Quinn was at battalion HQ, looking for a horse. He would be joining us that evening.
‘That’s if we live ’til then,’ Scholes put in.
We walked slowly along the white chalky road in the grey light. It was still far too early in the bloody morning. We walked slowly mainly on account of the waders that came right up to our arses. You’d think we were fishermen except that we carried picks and shovels in place of rods. Our rifles were on our backs. We carried our haversacks and not our packs; we’d also been issued with tin helmets, respirators against gas, and ammunition. We’d put all this kit on in silence, unquestioning. Normality had gone completely out of the window.
Oamer turned about, saying, ‘Voices down, boys. We’re in machine gun range now.’
I thought of the Chief on Station Road, talking to me about how the Germans didn’t bother with rimmed cartridges, which made their machine guns all the more efficient.
‘Everything just keeps getting worse,’ Scholes whispered to me, and he was obviously in a terrible state.
Right on cue, a machine gun rattle started up. But we were beginning a descent …
‘Is this a trench?’ enquired Tinsley.
‘Yes,’ said Oamer, as we all began to walk bent double, ‘that’s why you’re alive.’
It was more like a little valley cut by a beck – a natural formation – but then I saw sandbags on top on either side. The machine gun rattle came again.
‘But where’s the enemy?’ said Tinsley.
‘Don’t be so fucking naive,’ snapped Oliver Butler. ‘This is a communication trench. You’re at right angles to him.’
We intersected first with the reserve trench, then the support trench. The first of these seemed deserted; the second held a few men sitting on shell boxes eating breakfast. I saw a man drinking from a Rowntree’s fruit gum tin, and he gave me – or more likely young Tinsley – a wink as we went past. He must be a Yorkie! But then I recalled that Rowntree’s fruit gums were sold all over Britain, and not just in the city of their making.
The Somme Stations Page 10