‘I did for Harvey, Jim.’
I eyed him for a while, then shifted my gaze to Oliver Butler sitting beyond. He seemed half asleep. Tinsley and I sat on the right hand of the carriage; there was nobody on the seats immediately to our left.
‘I thought you knew,’ he said, ‘… when you asked me about the magazine.’
I gave a single shake of the head.
‘I got up at about one in the morning – ’
‘To be sick?’
Tinsley frowned, as though offended by the notion.
‘I got up to go to the jakes,’ he said, looking again at the slow unwinding of shadows beyond the window. ‘I’d shipped a lot of beer of course, but it was … more than a piss that I needed. I went over to my kit bag to get some paper, Jim. All the bags were up on the little stage, you recall, up with the rifles … and when I opened the bag up, I was looking for my Railway Magazine.’
‘Hold on,’ I said, ‘you were never going to use that for – ’
‘Not on your life, Jim. I was hunting for some newspaper that I kept specially, but I knew the magazine – it was the November 1915 number – had been on the top of the bag, because that’s where I’d put it – on the top so’s not to get crushed. Only it wasn’t there. So I was half looking for the newspaper, and half fretting about the magazine, thinking perhaps I’d put it by my bed after all, or left it at the farm …’
I nodded. ‘Go on.’
‘Just then, Harvey walked in, and he’d been about for a while, because he had a glass of ale in his hand that he’d taken from one of the barrels. He wasn’t the same with anyone his own age as he was with the older blokes, you know. He’d put on swank about his dad who’d got a medal in Africa. He hated the railways, Jim. They’d made a slave of his old man. His dad was nothing, you see, just a casual somewhere in the Company …’
(At this I wondered whether he too had mixed up the two ‘fathers’ of Harvey, not that it made any difference.)
‘Harvey was only on the railways for the uniform – for the blooming gold braid, shouldn’t be surprised. He’d always meant to enlist as soon as he was of age, and then the formation of the battalion was announced, and he came in. Only of course, he wasn’t up to it, and that made him angry. At least, he was angry with me, Jim.’
The kid was white, but he seemed to have mastered himself pretty well.
‘Harvey was giving me a bit of a slanging, saying I didn’t have the looks of a soldier, calling me a railway nut, but I paid him no mind. He’d turned up the lamp on the table, and he was looking at the notice Oamer had left there, so he could see we had our marching orders, that we were going out, and I think it knocked him, Jim, because he knew he wasn’t up to it. Anyhow, he took another pint, and downed it fast.’
‘In a different glass?’
Tinsley shrugged. ‘Think so.’
The two glasses on the table.
Tinsley blew smoke as though he wanted to get the stuff away from himself as fast as possible.
‘I admit, Jim, I might have said something along those lines …’
‘Along what lines?’
‘Something like, “Well, now we’ll see who’s up to snuff, and who gets the horrors at the sight of a bayonet”.’
‘It was exactly that, wasn’t it?’ I said.
‘It was, Jim. Those words exactly, and of course I’d take them back if I could, but there’s no help for it, is there?’
I kept silence, because there wasn’t. However, I still could not credit the idea of Alfred Tinsley as a killer.
‘He said, “Well, you can forget about your railway hobby now.” Then he walked out, collecting up his rifle.’
‘Out into the storm?’
‘Just so. I called after him, “What do you mean by that, you pill?” But he was having none of it. Just marched out, slanging me. Well, I went after him. I mean, who wouldn’t, Jim? And since he’d taken his rifle, I took mine, just to put the frighteners on him. I didn’t know what it would come to – bit of shouting, I suppose. Well, I came out into the rain and I could hardly see a thing, but I finally made him out walking on the sea wall, the abutment – ’
‘Revetment,’ I cut in.
‘I walked towards him, and he had his rifle pointing at me. I said, “We’ll have this out, but drop the bloody gun, will you?” He said, “I’ve a mind to shoot you down.” I said “You wouldn’t bloody dare”, and he said, “I’ve burnt your fucking magazine. It’s in the fucking stove.” So he’d taken it from my kit bag, and he’d put it in the stove – the November number. I could have shot him just then, but I didn’t. I was holding my rifle by the muzzle. I swung it, Jim, and crowned him with the butt. I hit him in the region of his left eye, and he would have had a shiner in the morning, but it was nothing worse than that, only …’
‘Go on.’
‘He fell onto the bloody …’
‘The mooring post … the bollard.’
‘… The upright for tying the ships, that’s it. Cracked the other side of his head against that, then just … rolled into the water. Just went in … haversack, rifle ’n’ all.’
Tinsley sniffed and crushed out the stub of the cigarette with his boot, saying, ‘Thanks, Jim, for that. I’m obliged to you … Once he’d gone, he’d really gone, I mean completely. I stood on that sea wall; I looked down, and there was no trace of him, and the sea was still going wild – hungry for more, sort of thing. Well, I can’t swim. I admit it, Jim, I turned away.’
He sat back, then immediately came forwards again.
‘I didn’t murder him did I?’
I shook my head. It was manslaughter, more like, and Tinsley would be able to claim self-defence. He certainly hadn’t shot at Oamer, either, because why would he do that, and then spill the beans to me?
‘I’m not liable?’ said Tinsley.
I gave no reaction. My thoughts were racing in a circus.
‘There were no witnesses,’ said Tinsley.
That was true enough.
‘Why tell me?’ I said, but I knew really. After our adventures in the Baldwin, and our times in Albert and Amiens, I’d graduated to being a person he could confide in.
‘I didn’t tell you at first,’ he said. ‘Well, you’re a copper.’ He sat back, adding, ‘I told Dawson.’
My thoughts whirled faster. In that case, Oliver Butler had not been lying about Dawson’s confession. Dawson had done it to get Tinsley off the hook. It had been amazingly white of him – might have earned him a place in heaven. If so, I hoped they had a good supply of John Smith’s laid on.
The train was beginning to slow.
‘Anyone else but Thackeray,’ Tinsley was saying, ‘and I’d have let on about it all, but he gives me the willies. I know I should have spoken up when I saw what he was putting Scholes through, but … I am in queer aren’t I, Jim?’
I said, ‘Do you want me to speak to Quinn, get it all straightened out?’
‘I do,’ he said, ‘but just not yet. I mean to set it all to rights, but I want to do it myself … Did I say that his cap had come off? He’d fallen in with his rifle and his haversack, and they were washed away. But his cap was still there, sitting on the sea wall near where he went in. By some miracle the wind hadn’t taken it, and no wave had reached it. I picked it up.’
‘Did Scholes see you? He said he saw something.’
‘He may have done. There might have been somebody moving about near the jakes when I was at the sea wall.’
‘What about the bike?’
‘Tripped over it, Jim. I was coming back from the sea wall, in an awful state, as you can imagine, and I went clattering into the blamed thing, which he’d left lying about between the wall and the hut. I cut my head in the fall, Jim, and it bled a little under the hair. I took my own cap off to check the damage; I set it down, and the wind had it away. Well, of course, I had another cap – I still had Harvey’s. I put it on; it fitted perfectly, and just for that reason, I decided to pass it off as my own. I w
asn’t thinking straight, as you can see.
Later, back in bed, I made up my mind that I would tell everything, but then Quinn came in holding my own cap, and he was mad for once, and I couldn’t bring myself to explain about it all. I was sure someone would work it all out. Apart from anything else, I suddenly had this very bright cap badge – because you know how Tinsley would go at it with the polish. And I left his glass on the table – well, his two glasses, you’re right about that. I always meant to tell the truth, but in the right way … and in all the questioning, I just couldn’t see my way to doing it. I will tell it to Quinn, I promise you. Meantime, you won’t split on me, will you Jim?’
I shook my head.
‘I won’t split,’ I said.
The blokes in the carriage were beginning to wake, and to stand. We were now coming in to Albert, clashing over a mass of points. The man in the seat directly behind Tinsley stood, and the greatcoat he was putting on looked quite normal, but when I raised my eyes to his head, I saw something amiss. The head was too small; he turned about, and his eyes were wrong as well – it was Roy Butler, the cleverer of the twins. For once, Andy was not at his side, and for that reason I had not heard Roy: he’d had nobody to speak to. It was an extraordinary thing to see him acting independently, but then I recalled that he had once – when Oamer had levelled the rifle at his brother – gone so far as to address me without prompting. Oliver Butler had clearly known of his brother’s presence, but they had travelled separately within the carriage, and my only hope was that this was in order that Roy Butler could sleep. If he hadn’t slept, then it was likely he would have heard Tinsley. This in turn meant that if Tinsley didn’t tell his tale to Thackeray in very short order then someone else would do it for him, and I could see Roy Butler speaking to his brother at that moment, and looking our way as he did so. I did not believe he had slept.
The mercy was that Tinsley, reaching into the luggage rack for his haversack, had no idea of this.
Towards Le Sars: Early October 1916
The target of the Fourth Army was now the German Transloy Line, which ran in a roughly south-easterly direction from Le Sars to Le Transloy. It would be attacked from the captured villages standing directly west of it, including Courcelette and Flers. As already stated, the two-foot track had extended almost to Flers at the close of September.
At the start of October, the platelayers at Burton – the Butler twins among them – extended the line into Flers itself with a succession of girder bridges to cross abandoned British trenches. And a branch was built aiming from there towards Le Sars, the better to pound that end of the Transloy Line. Oliver Butler had been detailed by Oamer to man the control at Flers, which was a dangerous spot, being very forward, and to work on the telephonic communications in that area.
On the day after our trip to Amiens, Tinsley and I coupled the Baldwin up to six flat wagons loaded with shells, all intended for gun positions along the Flers–Le Sars branch. We waited until dusk, then took our rum. (If you did it the other way about, the rum died in you, and you might as well not have had it.)
‘I’ll just give her a breath of steam,’ I said.
The rain had turned to sleet and there was no moon as we rolled through the first woods, past the pool where Tate had died, over the makeshift Ancre Bridge. I knew this evening that they were not just a series of mileposts – they amounted to more than that, and I believed that Tinsley thought so, too. As we ran over the girder bridge – at which point we began to come under shelling – I heard him mutter ‘Little and often’ while he was swinging the shovel. He was not much inclined to speak, and I wondered whether he’d regretted his confession (if that was quite the word) of the night before. At Naburn Lock, the sign announcing the name was still nailed to the post. Oliver Butler would have passed it often, sometimes on foot and alone, but he had never taken down the sign, in spite of his dangerous connection (for I was sure that one existed) with that place, and with Matthew Waddington who had come to grief there.
After an interval of crossing old British trenches by girder bridges, we came to a bombsite, Flers, and I saw a green light wavering into view. A man held it, and he had stepped out of – and also up from – the floor of a broken house. It was Oliver Butler, and his control point was in the basement of that place; telephone cables ran into it. When I rolled the Baldwin up to him, we nodded to each other. He had not, as far as I knew, yet ratted on either Dawson (after Dawson’s own ‘confession’ before dying) or on Tinsley after his loose talk on the train. It struck me that he had now found his place in the world: he had his telephone lines, and a whole Somme village of his own – a little empire of ruins; and he had his lamp, and he was giving us the green, letting us know it was safe to go along the branch to Le Sars. Tinsley was saying as much as he put coal on at my side: ‘We’ve got the green, Jim, let’s go.’
The shelling had lessened somewhat in the previous minutes, even though we were hard up against the front line, and things were quiet at first along the new branch. It ran over a field of hard mud in which a number of enterprises had come to grief. To our left was a small copse, but all the trees were burnt. A house had once been built there, but only one wall remained. On the other side of our line, someone had tried to tow a gun carriage through the field, but it now lay on its side, and two soldiers had walked in the field but they now lay dead, side by side like a married couple in bed, just a few feet from the railway line. It slowly came to me (for the field was dark) that one enterprise was being carried on in that very moment. In the copse to our left, two men were moving about. I could tell by the shape of their tin hats that they were Tommies … and they were breaking the burnt trees, destroying them further, as though not content with the work the shells had done. Puzzling over this, I put a cigarette in my mouth, and I heard the whistle of an approaching shell. As I lit the cigarette I heard – owing to the surprising slowness of the speed of sound – the bang of that same shell being fired. I thought for the moment that everything was slow, but was proved wrong a moment later when there came a great, fast crash and a shout from Tinsley; the line was holed directly in front of us, and I had no sooner made a grab for the brake than we were into the hole, and going over.
… Only now the infectious slowness had returned, and as the Baldwin toppled, we were able to walk out of it, so to speak, stepping off the wheels as it finally crashed into the mud. The wagons were dragged over a second later, the shells toppled off, and our two brakesmen leapt clear. Tinsley and I watched the still-spinning wheels of the Baldwin, illuminated by the flickering Verey lights of the front.
‘I never thought that would happen,’ said Tinsley, after a while.
‘I did,’ I said.
A shell came down in the field somewhere behind us.
‘We can right it with a jack,’ he said.
But we weren’t carrying a jack.
Tinsley was closing his eyes against what was now soft snow.
‘About what you said, last night,’ I said to him, but another shell was racing up and up directly above us, and his face wore a questioning look. There came a great light, but no explosion. I held my breath waiting for the explosion, but instead there was only the light, and the full scale of the disaster stood revealed: our fallen engine, the fallen wagons, the spilled shells; our brakesmen looking on. The shell had evidently got stuck in the sky – it was a light shell rocket, and the white flame swung beneath a small parachute. Beyond it the white clouds raced against the blackness of the heavens, like many pages being rapidly turned. I saw the spirals made by the falling snow, and I saw again my friend Tinsley – the whiteness of his face, a few pimples there, but also the beginnings of a manly handsomeness. I saw the Tommies in the distant trees, and knew what they were about – wood fatigue; the collection of fuel. They were like figures from an older world. I thought of Christmas, and Good King Wenceslas walking with his servant. The hanging light had not stopped the Tommies about their wood-gathering, but I felt wiser than them in
that moment, and I knew that it should have stopped them. As they pulled the branches down, the sound of sharp cracks came echoing towards me. I looked to the other side of the line, and saw the two dead soldiers. The light showed me that they were Germans. Stepping over the track, I moved towards where they lay. There was a rifle there, and even though I held my own rifle, I picked it up. I could not say what I was about. I was perhaps tidying up the field, being in a daze, the train having turned over.
The shock of all this was increasing and not decreasing. I turned and faced Tinsley, and said something, but I could not make myself heard over the cracking of the wood from the copse, which was in fact the firing of bullets. The words formed in my head: We are under sniper observation, and Tinsley immediately proved the fact by falling over. He fell both down and away, and something went from him as he fell. The light in the sky then went out, and I saw the flame fall. I saw where it lay in the field – a small, ordinary fire. I had a mental image of a log burning on a fire, and I heard the unnatural squealing of the sap coming from the wood, which became by degrees a whistling.
The shell was on me, and in me – into my leg. I was lying flat under the increasing snow, with the two rifles about me. I turned one way and our brakesmen were coming running. From another direction came an artillery man, shouting:
‘What the hell’s going on? We told the Control to hold you back.’
I saw behind them a figure with a lamp, moving more slowly, and looking half concerned: Oliver Butler, ‘the Control’, who had been told to keep us back. But I was melting into the ground where I lay. I thought: I have one more chance to make a movement before the pain becomes intolerable, but I discovered that I was wrong about that.
PART THREE
Blighty Again
Ilkley Again
When I was half awake, but still under the gas, I looked through a gap in the curtains and saw, in the dawn light, Ilkley Moor, a good deal higher than it had been before, and moving towards this house, and towards me, closing in. It then came to me that this was a great bank of cloud, with a ragged top, but I was still not quite thinking straight, because it seemed very clear that this bank of cloud was called the Western Front, and so the Western Front was coming to Ilkley.
The Somme Stations Page 24