He knelt by the stretcher and spoke to him. ‘Bertram…it is Bertram, isn’t it?’
The man opened his eyes and Arthur could see that it was, indeed, his relation. He was a sort of stepbrother-in-law; he had never really worked out the exact connection. His grey eyes looked glazed and blank for a moment, then he said, somewhat confusedly, ‘Arthur…what are you doing here?’
‘I’m an ambulance driver,’ said Arthur. ‘Don’t you remember…?’
Bertram nodded weakly. ‘Yes…I think so…’
‘And I’ve come to look after you and see that you get better. We’re going to move you on to the next station, then they’ll get you all ship-shape again. It’s just your head, is it?’
‘I don’t know… My leg as well, I think. It hurts. I’m hurting all over…’ His face was ashen and his eyes dark with pain. Arthur did not investigate what lay beneath the blanket covering the lower half of his body. Bertram closed his eyes again, and it was obvious that he was in a bad way.
Arthur summoned the stretcher bearers to carry him to the ambulance, and when they had their full quota he set off, driving across the rough terrain as carefully as he was able, to the next field station.
On his journey Arthur thought about the other men of the Moon family who were over here, somewhere. He had heard very little news of any of them. He trusted they would all survive and escape serious injury, but he knew that that was a vain hope. It was his responsibility now, though, to do all be could to help Bertram.
He remembered the others and their happy family get-togethers before this wretched war had started and spoilt it all. There was Freddie Nicholls, who was married to Maddy; they had a little girl, Amy, who was the same age as his and Jessie’s son, Gregory. Then there was Jessie’s brother, Tommy, and his good friend Dominic, who was now engaged to Tommy’s twin sister, Tilly. And Samuel, Jessie’s elder brother, whom they did not see very much. Arthur recalled now that Samuel was the real father of Hetty’s little girl, Angela, but she had always believed Bertram to be her daddy. But all these matters were irrelevant in the face of the terrible conflict they were all now engaged in. He muttered a quick prayer that all would go well for Bertram.
In his dugout a few miles distant, Samuel Barraclough, also, was thinking about the folks back home, and the members of his own family – in whom, he now confessed to himself, he had in the past taken little interest – who were, like himself, fighting in France, and not too far away, he presumed.
Samuel had risen through the ranks quite speedily, for reasons that he didn’t like to think about too much, and was now a captain in the Durham Light Infantry. His dugout was not at all bad, compared with the hell-holes in which some of the poor devils were forced to exist, day after day. It was rather more than a trench, having the remains of a hut built on to it on one side. It was well sand-bagged and furnished, to a degree. There was a table and a few chairs, rather battered, that a nearby farmer had loaned; a bedstead with a mattress, and a few extra straw mattresses; a wash-stand with a jug and bowl; and a small cupboard which contained a few provisions that were rather more appetising than the customary bully beef; even a few bottles of local French wine and packets of cigarettes.
His men had helped to make the billet as comfortable as was possible. Samuel had been surprised at the comradeship – he would even go so far as to call it friendship – that had developed between himself and men of other ranks, and not just the commissioned soldiers or those who came from a similar, privileged background. One of his closest comrades was, surprisingly, a Church of England padre, Andrew Machin, the vicar of a church in a little village in Northumberland. The automatic status of any priest who volunteered as an army chaplain was that of captain. Andrew, though, was from quite an ordinary, working-class background. His father had been a miner, who was now retired due to ill health, and his mother was a nurse.
Samuel had first encountered the Reverend Andrew Machin when he had attended a service of Holy Communion that the chaplain was conducting in the barn of a nearby farm. Services were being held in all sorts of places; in barns and ruined farmhouses, in farmhouse kitchens, in the bars of public houses, and sometimes even in the trenches when it was hoped that the enemy fire had died down for the night. The services were usually held at night when the men would be relatively safe from attack, although one could never be sure when another skirmish might start.
Samuel could not have said why he attended the service, only that he felt it was something he had to do. He had never been a religious sort of person. He had been confirmed in the Church of England faith when he was fourteen years old, mainly as a matter of course. It was the church his parents had always attended, although spasmodically, and it had been considered the right thing to do. Since leaving school and going to university he had hardly ever attended a church service, except for the obligatory marriage or funeral services of family members. He had always had a grudging admiration for Isaac Moon, the father of his stepfather, William, who all his life had been a staunch Methodist, one whose faith had never wavered. But he, Samuel, had never felt able to give credence to something that was not based on scientific fact.
Until recently, that was… Now, in the midst of this bloody conflict, he found himself searching for something – anything – that would make some sense of it all. All around him, day after day, men were being killed or cruelly maimed. He had seen several of his fellow officers, men who had been his friends and many who had been under his command, killed on the battlefield. Some of them, he knew, had been far more worthy human beings than he had been; they had not deserved to die. And one never knew when it might be one’s own turn…
Samuel was beginning to realise, to his shame, that the life he had led till now had been far from blameless. Not that he was an out and out scoundrel, he excused himself. He had never broken the law; he was not a thief or a murderer. But he knew that he had fallen far short of the standards by which folk considered you to be ‘a first-rate chap’. Certainly, he had not come up to the standard that his own mother might have hoped he would attain.
He had fallen into conversation with Andrew Machin after the communion service he had attended. He had discovered that he was a very human sort of fellow, one in whom he found himself wanting to confide.
‘I hadn’t taken communion for years,’ he told him. ‘I couldn’t say how long it has been; not since I was eighteen or so, I suppose. But I feel better for it. I can’t really explain why…’
‘That’s why we’re here,’ replied the padre. ‘Myself and all the others who have volunteered to serve God in this way. To try to make people feel better and give them the strength, maybe, to carry on. I’ve met many like you, who have never set foot inside a church for years. I don’t judge or condemn, you know, Samuel; and neither, I believe, does God.’
‘I find it hard to believe in Him,’ said Samuel. ‘I hope that doesn’t shock you too much…’
‘No, not at all.’ Andrew shook his head. ‘I’ve heard that statement many times before, believe me.’
‘If God exists, and if He’s all-powerful, as I remember we were taught at Sunday school, then why does He allow it? All this…’ Samuel waved his arm towards the sand-bagged entrance to the dugout. The sound carrying from a few miles away, they could hear the noise of distant gunfire. ‘It’s all going on out there. We’re safe at the moment, thank God, but we don’t know for how long.’
The chaplain smiled. ‘You said, “Thank God.” So you do believe in Him, don’t you?’
‘It’s what we all say, isn’t it?’ replied Samuel. ‘Yes…maybe I do believe, deep down. But why… why, Andrew? May I call you Andrew, by the way?’
‘Of course you may. I’m serving my country, just as you are. The fact that I wear my collar back to front doesn’t make me any different from the next man. I can’t tell you why, Samuel. But it makes a little more sense if you realise that it’s not what God wants. It all comes down to man’s inhumanity to man, on a very large scale. It’s
men who cause the wars – mankind, I should say, not just men – for whatever reason. Love of power, the desire to dominate, to be bigger and better than one’s neighbour… But I do believe, in the end, that right will prevail. It’s what I have to go on believing, or I don’t think I could continue.’
‘You’re doing a grand job,’ Samuel told him. ‘Not all padres are like you, you know. I’ve come across one or two who have a real cushy little number. They give comfort from the safety of the headquarters; reading letters to the lads who are illiterate, holding the occasional service in a safe billet…’
‘Yes, I realise that,’ smiled Andrew. ‘But you can’t blame them entirely. The Church has made it clear that they don’t want us to venture near to the enemy lines; they think we might get in the way. But it’s a rule made to be disobeyed. I think – I hope – that most chaplains do as I do. I shall go wherever I believe it is necessary for me to go. I might think differently, of course, if I had a wife and family at home, but I haven’t.’
‘You’re not married then?’
‘No, not yet,’ said Andrew. ‘There’s a young lady in my parish. I trust she’ll still be there when all this is over… How about you, Samuel?’
‘No, I’m not married,’ replied Samuel. ‘Perhaps it’s just as well. There’ll be plenty of women left as widows when this lot comes to an end. So I’ll make one less… Strangely enough, though, I’ve never really considered that I might not get through it.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘The devil looks after his own, you might say.’
Andrew Machin looked at him questioningly and Samuel felt an urge to talk about his far from exemplary past. ‘No…I’m not married,’ he said again. ‘I’m thirty years old. Many of my peers are married and have a couple of children by now, but not me…’ He shook his head a little dejectedly.
‘The same age as I am,’ said Andrew. ‘Well, I’m thirty-one, actually. But I have felt no urge to get married until I found the right girl. And I know that Irene is the right one for me. It’s far better to wait than to “marry in haste, repent at leisure”. That’s what they say, don’t they? You were saying…?’ he asked enquiringly. The padre felt that his new acquaintance – whom he hoped might soon be a friend – wanted to confide in him.
‘I could have been married,’ Samuel said. ‘Many would say that I ought to have been…and I know now that I lost a young woman who meant a great deal to me, through my own selfishness and stupidity.’ He paused, and Andrew waited quietly for him to continue.
‘She was pregnant,’ Samuel went on. ‘My fault entirely. All I was concerned about was my own selfish pleasure.’
Andrew smiled. ‘It does take two, you know, so don’t feel you have to carry all the blame. Unless you forced yourself on her, and I’m sure you didn’t; you’re too much of a gentleman for that, I feel sure.’
‘No, it was a mutual thing, something we both wanted. But it was very selfish not to think of what the consequences might be. We’d been going out together for quite a while and she was a very loving sort of girl. As I’ve said, I’m sorry now that I’ve lost her.’
‘And why was that? Didn’t you feel able to face up to your responsibilities?’ asked Andrew, but not in a condemnatory manner.
‘I would have done the right thing, I suppose,’ said Samuel. ‘But by the time I knew of her condition we were no longer seeing one another. She had no desire at all to marry me, and who could blame her? I’d been playing around and Henrietta – that’s her name but she’s usually called Hetty – she had met another young man who wanted to marry her. I confess, to my shame, that I was rather relieved at the time. But I’m realising now just how much I’ve lost.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Andrew. ‘It’s a sad story. But it sounds to me as though you’re regretting your past…indiscretions. Maybe it took you a little longer to settle down than it does with some young men. But there will be someone else for you, Samuel, I feel sure, when this is all over, as we keep saying. And what about Henrietta? Did she marry the young man, do you know? And is she happy?’
‘Oh yes, she’s very happy,’ replied Samuel. ‘The little girl, Angela, is seven years old now. She calls me Uncle Sam,’ he said with an ironic grin. ‘I can’t avoid seeing them now and again because Hetty’s a sort of connection of mine through marriage; too complicated to explain fully. And Bertram, the man she married, he’s a grand fellow. Angie thinks he’s her father, which is only as it should be. Yes, it’s a good marriage…
‘He’s over here, somewhere, is Bertram. And I hope he comes through it all safely. I really do mean that, very sincerely.’
‘I’m sure you do, Samuel,’ said Andrew. ‘None of us are free from sin, you know; wrongdoing is perhaps a more acceptable word than sin. Try to remember that. We’ve all fallen short of God’s standards, and our own standards sometimes. We all have things in our past that we have cause to feel ashamed about. “All have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God…” That’s what the Bible says, St Paul to be exact, although I don’t believe in a great deal of sermonising.’
‘I’ve a lot of catching up to do when the war’s over,’ said Samuel. ‘With my mother, more than with anyone. She’s a wonderful woman; she’s never shown me anything but love and understanding. And I know there are times when she must have been disappointed in me.’
‘She’ll be thinking about you even now,’ Andrew told him, ‘and saying a prayer for you, just as I know my mother will be doing for me.’
‘Yes, she’s a very special person. She’s in charge of a convalescent home in Scarborough…’ Samuel went on to tell his new friend about the work that his mother and other members of his family were doing.
‘That’s good,’ said Andrew. ‘We all serve in different ways. I’m trying to do what I believe God is calling me to do. I must confess, though, Samuel, that I have a great admiration for the Roman Catholic priests who are serving as chaplains over here. I may not agree with their doctrine; according to my faith it’s not necessary to give what they call the “last rites” to a dying person. It’s possible to get into heaven without that, and in the final analysis God is the judge. But, as I say, I do respect what they are doing. I’ve seen Roman Catholic priests go onto the battlefield with guns being fired all around, to give what they call Extreme Unction to the dying. And that is what I consider real bravery.’
‘It is indeed,’ agreed Samuel. ‘But don’t underestimate what you are doing. You have already helped me a great deal, and lots more of the men, I’m sure.’
Since that first meeting the two men had become good friends. Samuel was alone in the dugout for a little while one evening at the height of summer. There was a momentary lull in the fighting and the noise from the battlefield had ceased. In the area outside of the trench the corn in the fields was golden, almost ready for harvesting, and scarlet poppies, which already were becoming a symbol of the war and a sign of hope to the thousands of soldiers engaged in the endless conflict, fluttered in the gentle breeze.
Samuel thought about the enemy troops across the stretch of terrain known as ‘no man’s land’, who, like the British Tommies, were no doubt relieved at the brief respite from the fighting. He recalled a story he had heard – whether it was true or apocryphal no one was really sure – about the first Christmas of the war. How, on Christmas Eve, the British and the German soldiers had left their trenches and met in no man’s land, shaking hands, exchanging cigarettes, chatting and laughing together as well as they could despite the language barrier, forgetting for a few hours that they were enemies. And, maybe, thinking about Jesus Christ, the Saviour of the world, whose birth was being celebrated in many Christian countries. How sad Jesus must have felt at the sin and the violation of the world He had come to save.
Why, Samuel pondered, why couldn’t the men of both sides put down their arms, even now, and say, ‘No more’? He had never gone along, fully, with the tales of the atrocities committed by the ‘Hun’. Some, maybe, had the lust for brutality and depravity; but no
doubt the same tendencies were there in some of our own race. But on the whole he felt sure that the majority of the German soldiers had, like the British men, been drawn into the conflict despite their personal feelings; and their wish now must be for an end to it all; to go home and pick up the threads of family life again.
As for Samuel, he could not foretell what the future might hold for him. It seemed that he had forfeited any hope he might have had for a family life, at any rate, with the woman he had loved and lost. His thoughts strayed to little Angela, his own daughter, although it was doubtful that she would ever know the truth. His heart had been stirred a little the last time he had seen her. A bonny little girl with the brown eyes of her mother and the dark hair that was the legacy of both himself and Hetty. She was by no means a shy child; she had chatted to him in a very friendly manner. One might almost call her precocious, a ‘chip off the old block’, he mused, smiling a little to himself. He had felt a faint desire then, as he did now, that he might be rather more than an uncle to her. But Bertram had been a loving and caring father. Despite his regrets, Samuel hoped that Bertram would survive the war.
He thought about his younger brother, Tommy, as well, and Dominic and Freddie. He did not know the other two as well as he might have done, but they were all over here, somewhere. He said a silent prayer for them all, something which, to his surprise, he had found himself doing quite a lot lately.
He turned to a book of poetry that his mother had sent him, something else that he formerly had not had much time for, but it was a solace to him now. He read again the now familiar words…
Until We Meet Again Page 25