Coming Home

by Roy E. Stolworthy

  Without warning his Adam’s apple bobbed and stuck in his throat, he coughed and his eyes filled with warm salty tears and flowed unchecked down his grime coated cheeks. Against his wishes he cried like a child and knew only in death, would he find an everlasting peace.

  When the tears dried he sniffed and stared up at the roof and searched his imagination for what it might be like to exist in another time, to feel the warmth of sunshine playing over his face. To once more smell the heady scent of fresh heather wafting across the moors and tease his senses. He pictured Lord Buxton standing in his gleaming black boots outside the church waiting for his groom to arrive with the bay horse and trap. From there he would go to the inn and take a gill of brown ale with the parishioners, who would cling to every word he spoke. Not that he ever made any sense, but because he was a lord.

  He swung his legs over the side of the bed and pulled himself gingerly to his feet, feeling the pain bite into his chest like dagger points. Somehow he struggled across the room, pulled the letter from his tunic hanging on the back of the door and eased himself into the chair next to the window. Apple lay sleeping silently on his back with his arms folded across his chest like a monarch lying in state, his mouth opening and closing like a goldfish in a bowl at a fairground.

  This was the first opportunity he’d had to read the two-page letter properly since the mêlée in the mine. After the first page his hands shook and he felt no need to read any further. The pages slipped from his hands and fluttered down onto the table. His chest heaved, sending spasms of pain darting into his body. In spite of the agony he picked up the letter and read the first page once more. She was pregnant. He was about to become a father. It could only be his. He needed Moses – he would know what to do.

  Sleep tormented him that night with a riot of dreams, some of profound happiness, others tangled and twisted with dark flickering nightmares. He dreamed of playing in the top meadow with Ruby, of holding a baby, his baby, standing in front of the altar with Dilly by his side and his mother and father watching with the rest of the congregation. Archie stood holding a noose in his hand on the other side of the church. Something gripped his shoulder and he felt himself being led away. He resisted, he didn’t want to go, yet still the grip on his shoulder remained, pulling him first one way and then the other. Sitting up in the bed, he screamed in agony as the pain ripped mercilessly into his chest. A red mist blocked the light from his eyes and he trembled without restraint.

  “Whoa there, lad,” Apple said, releasing his grip on Thomas’s shoulder. “Take this, it will help you sleep.”

  In a state of dazed confusion Thomas swallowed the pill without protest and gulped the cold water, while Apple wiped away the sweat on his face.

  “You were having a bad one there, son. I’ve had dozens of nightmares since I was first blown up, never had another after the second time,” Apple said.

  “Why, what happened?” Thomas murmured sinking back onto the bed.

  “I shit the bed instead.”

  Thomas couldn’t stop himself from laughing. “You’re joking,” he said, holding his hands to his chest to relieve the pain.

  “Get your head down, that pill will work in seconds,” Apple said with a smile and a wink.

  Like Apple promised the pill weaved its magic and he contentedly drifted into a deep sleep, feeling warm and at peace with the world, his mind sitting comfortable with his body. Apple stayed awake and made coffee. Raking the grey embers in the fire he threw on a couple of logs and watched the flames lick greedily at the offering and celebrated by sending a flurry of sparks dancing their way up the chimney. With a satisfied smile he listened to Thomas’s breathing become deep and even and approached the bed. Lifting the corner of the blanket he stared into Thomas’s young face for a few moments. He knew the young corporal was no older than sixteen years of age at the most. If he’d known he was younger it wouldn’t have surprised him. He’d seen them before: orphans, abused children cast from their homes by cruel parents, children who stole to live and hid in misery from the harshness of the law, others who were misguided youngsters searching for adventure and glory in a conflict forecast to last only months. To some Thomas might have appeared older, but not to Apple – he saw through the fear and degradation manifested by the uncommon misery invoked by life in the trenches.

  Men aged twenty looked fifty, and men of thirty-five looked more like worn out grandfathers. Thomas looked his age with his eyes closed, the boyishness glimmering through in its bliss and splendour as sleep relaxed his features. Awake, the sunken haunted eyes were surrounded by black sockets and the tautness of fear gazed into a bottomless chasm. Lips pulled back, snarling exposed teeth ready to tear out a throat for the sake of self-preservation while he worked the bolt of his rifle and dealt out death with the same ease as a dog chewing a bone. All these things gave him the appearance of someone twice his age, but without the privilege and longevity of experience.

  In the brief time he’d known Thomas he’d felt an intensity lurking within the boy, a hidden agenda, something dark and subliminal skulking and waiting to be released. He saw a boy struggling for manhood, who might never swing a pick and leave his mark on the world, yet his bravery and courage could never be questioned – always first into the thick of trouble and the last out, he seemed to exist within an aura such as he had never witnessed before. He turned away and saw the letter lying open on the table, and felt the temptation to read the words. Instead, he folded it neatly, replaced it in the envelope and pushed it back into Thomas’s tunic pocket.

  Second Lieutenant Bellamy strode into the farmhouse the following morning accompanied by Sergeant Bull. An unusual occurrence in itself, officers and senior NCOs rarely felt the need to present themselves to corporals.

  “Stand easy and be seated, Corporal Elkin,” Bellamy said, noticing Thomas wincing. “This isn’t an official visit, by God it isn’t. I simply like to keep an eye on my men. Too much slaughter and not enough consideration for the fighting men going on in this war. Now, Sergeant Bull tells me two of the men you spent time with in the mines think you deserve a medal for saving their lives. Is this true, eh, what, what, speak up man?”

  “Is what true, Sir?”

  “Did you save their lives by a courageous and unselfish act of bravery?”

  “I don’t think so, Sir. I just did my duty.”

  “I’m inclined to disagree, Corporal, by God I am, by God I am. I think you exceeded your duties and were lucky to escape unscathed, apart from the injury to your chest. Mmm, what do you say to that, eh, eh, eh?” he said, rubbing his hand over his jaw and squeezing his lips together with his fingers, then pinching his forehead.

  Thomas remained silent. He wanted to avert his eyes from the clownish antics, not from shyness or embarrassment but calculation. It was all put on, a façade designed for everyone to see that he was a caring officer with only the well-being of his troops in mind. Thomas knew it was all bullshit. News travelled fast in the trenches and Bellamy had been recognised by a sergeant from the Welsh guards.

  “Tried to court-martial him for cowardice they did. Ordered his men over the top and remained shitting himself in the trenches. When his men won the day he sprang from his trench and raced across No Man’s Land without being spotted and dropped into the captured trenches,” the sergeant continued. “‘Gave them a sound thrashing that time we did’, that’s what the cowardly bastard said. One of the men had lost all his mates in the attack and wanted to rip his head off. ‘Who’s we?’ he asked him. ‘I don’t remember seeing you, Sir, apart from the time you slithered back into the trenches and stayed their shitting your nice corded breeches, Sir. Mind you, Sir, nice of you to find time to come over and visit us, Sir, now it’s all over, Sir.’”

  At his court-martial Bellamy had stated that his helmet had been shot from his head and he had suffered momentarily from amnesia. They let him off and sent him to the Yorkshire Rifles.

  “Can’t blame him for being scared,” Thomas said
.

  “I’ve seen more than my share of frightened men in my time, lad, myself one of them. Fear’s not a crime. I know that, by God I do, it’s a trait of human nature. But the poor buggers still took their turn in going over the top and died gripped in the arms of fear the same as brave men,” the sergeant said, becoming agitated. “It’s the lying sods that falsely claim the success won by others that causes the bell to toll.”

  Thomas thought long and hard on the words. He decided it unnecessary to spook the remainder of the men in the battalion, and chose to keep the truth about Bellamy to himself for the time being. If the officer endangered any of the Rifles he would have no hesitation in shooting him.

  “Ah well, perhaps a medal’s not in the offing after all, pity though, Sergeant Bull informs me you’ve hardly taken any leave since just after Christmas. You’re no good to us at the moment and I think we can manage without you for six days. A few days in Blighty might be just what the doctor ordered. You can leave when you feel fit to travel,” Bellamy said. “Tell the men. I like them to know I’m always thinking of their welfare, what, what, what.”

  Thomas felt he needed no favours from him and, for a moment, felt like telling him where to stick his leave. He wasn’t the only one who deserved a break, the whole battalion’s nerves were stretched to breaking point. Then his thoughts turned to Dilly.

  Raining, raining, forever raining, it became like day is to daylight and dark is to darkness. The raindrops fell, whispering a symphony on the uneven panes of glass, and he thanked God that the fire crackled a smiling comforting hello. Two weeks, they told him, two weeks before he was fit enough to travel, he couldn’t believe his luck. Already he’d written to Dilly informing her he was coming back to Blighty. When, he wasn’t certain. He’d pass on a letter to a soldier going home on leave to post it for him when he was sure. For two days he wrestled with his mind unsure whether or not he was doing the right thing. To all intents and purposes he supposed he might be too young to get married and raise children, then again, Dilly might not even want him when she discovered his age. Reflexively he raked his fingers through his hair and reminded himself to wash with carbolic soap before he left. He could feel the lice crawling over his body, sucking and feasting on his blood.

  Each morning he sat impatiently by the window watching columns of men tramping to Ypres and the front line, their faces smiling as they engaged in bouts of uncouth banter. Others with downturned mouths convinced they were engaged in a one way journey. Ammunition carts and field guns struggled through the clinging mud. Behind them came the baggage column with its long-eared mules, then the field kitchens – black greasy boilers on wheels – and finally, the stretcher-bearers with their little wheeled ambulances. In all the time he’d spent in France and Belgium he’d hardly known the sun to shine for more than a few days at a time. Now he had grown to hate the place, along with the officers, those ineffectual idiots who foolishly sent tens of thousands to a needless death. Above all he hated the Germans who’d started the bloody war in the first place. The sight of Moses plodding through the rain cheered him and he smiled at the thought of much missed company. He filled the pan with water, pushed it onto the hot embers and prepared two cups of coffee with extra sugar.

  “How are you this fine morning?” Moses said in his clipped voice, usurping the chair by the window.

  “I’ve had a letter from Dilly. You remember I told you about her?”

  “I certainly do, how is she keeping? Very well I hope.” “She’s pregnant.”

  “Really, and who’s the lucky father?”

  “I am.”

  Moses’s head jerked upwards, and with a solemn face he watched Thomas pour hot water into two tin mugs. “When did you last see her?”

  “Almost six months ago. Bellamy’s given me six days leave and I’m going to London to see her. I’d like to marry her. Do you think I’m too young? What do you think I should do?”

  “Are you serious?” Moses said frowning. “She’s six months pregnant and you have only just found out, and now you want to get married at the age of sixteen and raise a family. A few weeks ago you were all set to get yourself killed. I think you had better slow down and put things into perspective.”

  “I know I can never go home, but I can make a life somewhere else, I can change my name – that’s not against the law is it?”

  “No, it’s not,” Moses said, perturbed by Thomas’s sudden change of heart and determination to live. “If you want to change your name, there are thousands of bodies out there in No Man’s Land. Just take your pick and switch identity tags.”

  Thomas’s eyes sprung open wide. “I never thought of that,” he whispered excitedly. “I knew you would know what to do.”

  “For God’s sake,” Moses snapped. “Slow down and try to consider things rationally instead of stumbling around like a blind man in the dark.”

  Thomas felt his face redden and he turned and stared out of the window. At times, Moses’s cutting attitude placed a strain on their friendship and he felt the bite of anger grip his chest. The child is his, what else is there is to consider? he thought petulantly.

  “The men out on patrol day and night are really putting the frighteners on the Germans,” Moses said, changing the subject. Thomas only half-heard him as he watched Slippery Stewart, the eternal bearer of bad news making his way towards the farmhouse.

  “Hello, Archie. I just thought you ought to know that Stan Banks has a dugout in the trenches full of souvenirs taken from the dead – got quite a thriving business by all accounts,” Slippery said in a whinging voice and avoiding eye contact.

  Thomas spun round with his eyes blazing and fists clenched, the thought strangled his heart, and already annoyed by Moses abrupt attitude he snapped.

  “Where is he now?”

  “Ignore him,” Moses snapped. “He’s just stirring the shit, as usual.”

  “He’s in the trenches,” Slippery added nervously, turning to avoid Moses’s glare.

  Thomas pushed aside the pain in his chest and pulled on his tunic, with a sneer on his lips he made his way towards the trenches, followed by Moses. Once there, he made his way to the Rifles’ position.

  “Give me a grenade, Corporal Crumble, now!” he growled at Apple.

  Apple opened his mouth to speak.

  “Give me a bloody grenade or I’ll blow you up for the last time!”

  Apple handed him the grenade and glanced at Moses, Moses shrugged and held out his hands palms up. A queue of men standing outside Stan Banks’s dugout turned to see what all the noise was about.

  “Hey up, lads, our very own hero’s turned up to pay us a visit. Come to buy a souvenir have you?” Banks called out.

  Without responding, Thomas pulled the pin and threw the grenade into the dugout.

  “Hey up, you baby-faced bastard, what do you think you’re doing?” Banks screamed, diving for cover.

  “Get out of here, Banks, and don’t come back, you weasel-faced rat, you’re finished with the snipers. For months I’ve watched men slaughtered and blown to pieces, many I considered friends, and you want to sell souvenirs and make money from their deaths.” He turned to the men. “You,” he asked the man closest to him, “you know anybody who copped it out there, and you, how about you, and you, you lost a brother didn’t you?” he said, pointing his finger at a man with downcast eyes. They nodded and dropped their heads in shame. “Get back to your positions, and you, Banks, fuck off.”

  Banks’s snarl was instant and his hand reached for his bayonet. Then his shoulders slumped, his arms hung limply by his sides. Thomas felt the coldness of his glare and shuddered. Banks picked up his rifle. His finger reached out and fumbled with the safety catch.

  “Who do think you are, eh? Oh, I forgot, you don’t know who you are, do you? I’ll remember this. You haven’t heard the last of me, Elkin,” he growled quietly.

  Thomas turned his back, unable to dispel the chill shooting up his spine. The threat had found its mark. T
hey would meet again, he was sure of it, and perhaps it wouldn’t be on friendly terms.

  “You might have been a little offhand there, my friend,” Moses said thoughtfully, watching Banks disappear.

  “I don’t think so,” Thomas snapped.

  “Since wars began soldiers seldom return without plunder. Banks is consumed with the fear of dying, like everyone else, but he does something about it – he invents another world as a diversion to keep his mind off the horror that eats away inside of him. To help allay his fear he brings others into his world and gives them something else to think about apart from dying. When they queued up to buy his souvenirs he knew what he was doing. He knows, as the rest do that they might all be blown to pieces this time tomorrow, and those who survive will queue again the next day, and the days after that. It offers them an alternative to the inevitable,” Moses said.

  “For God’s sake, speak in English,” Thomas said. “I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

  Moses looked him directly in the face, blinked slowly, shook his head from side-to-side and walked away.

  Rattled, in the farmhouse Thomas stared grimly into the fire, waiting for his anger to diminish. For some time he struggled to decipher the meaning of Moses’s assumed words of wisdom. They made no sense. Ever since they had fallen out over Robert McCaughey’s death at Amiens, Banks had sought to re-invent their friendship, yet he was always prepared to hurl a biting insult whenever the opportunity arose. He recalled the time spent training at Catterick where Banks had become his best friend, always looking out for him. He even rightly suspected that he was under-age, but said nothing. He’d taken him home to his family, never doubting his story of being raised in an orphanage with nowhere else to go. With his head in his hands, he sought to make sense of the situation and failed. Maybe he had deprived the men of hope in a hopeless environment, but he failed to see how. He crossed to the window and watched horses straining and heaving to pull carts overloaded with stores. They came in all shapes, sizes and colours. None looked like Ruby, and he was glad.