by Dee Yates
A soldier emerged from the hut to which the dead man had been carried. She ran to him.
‘Please, please! You must help me! It’s my little girl. She was here a minute ago. Now she’s gone.’
‘Slow down, lassie. Are you sure about this?’
‘Of course. The pram’s empty. She was here. We were walking home when we saw the accident. I only left her there for a minute or two to see if I could help. Oh, please, will you help me look for her?’
‘Of course. Give me a second. I’ll get some more men.’ He ran towards the hut and Ellen wheeled round and made off in the direction of the river, knowing that this and the mud slip held the greatest danger. Glancing behind her, she saw a clutch of men spreading out across the lower slopes of the valley.
There was no sign of Netta at the water’s edge. Ellen did not think she could have gone far in the few minutes that she was occupied at Josef’s side. She lurched from one uneven rock to the next, her boots full of water and her sodden skirt clinging around her legs. Pausing, she looked along the meandering riverbank as far as she could see. Nothing.
On the hillside she could just make out the figures of the other searchers. Ellen lowered her head and frantically renewed her slow progress along the side of the swollen river.
A shout made her pause and look behind her to the origin of the sound. It came again.
‘Ellen! Come! Come here!’
Screwing up her eyes, she could just make out on the hillside the waving arms of a man. Only his top half was visible and she realised that he must be standing in one of the circular stells, in which sheep sheltered from the winter weather.
‘Come here, Ellen,’ the voice repeated. ‘I find her.’
It was Josef. She raced up the hill towards him, her legs almost giving way beneath her. Would her daughter be all right… or had she come to some harm? How could she have been so stupid as to take her eyes off the toddler for even a second? Reaching the rough wall of the stell, she raised an agonised face to Josef’s serious one.
He put a finger to his lips. ‘She is safe. Come. Look at her.’
Ellen found the entry and staggered inside. Her daughter was curled up and sleeping peacefully beneath the protection of the stone wall. She sank to her knees, the weakness of relief getting the better of her, and lay a hand on her sleeping daughter. Then she leaned back, covering her face with her hands. Josef knelt beside her and gently pulled her towards him, resting her head against his shoulders and stroking her hair with slow, soothing movements. In the stillness, she could feel the excited beat of his heart, echoing her own.
Easing her trembling hands away from her face, he stared into her eyes.
‘Liebling! It is a bad day, is it not? But now I see you, that is one good. You are well?’
Ellen shook her head slowly from side to side, her eyes locked on his. ‘I was ill. I lost the baby I was carrying. I’m better now.’ She felt the slight tensing of the arms that held her, as she started to cry, noisy sobs that convulsed her body.
Josef drew her towards him again and held her tight and she felt as if she could stay in his arms forever. ‘Oh, Liebling. I am sorry. I always know something is not right. But your man, he is home to help you?’
‘I haven’t seen or heard from my husband for more than four months.’
‘But he does not write?’
‘I havenae heard anything.’
She watched the conflicting expressions cross his face… surprise, commiseration, hope. Lifting a hand, he softly brushed her cheek with his fingers. In the distance there was a shout and he seemed to recollect himself.
‘Come, Herzchen. We must go. You and Netta both are cold. She is wet and you are… very wet. And I… if I stay away very long, they think I escape!’ He took one of her hands to pull her up, but she didn’t move.
Her face was so close to his that she could hear his rapid breathing and feel the shallow warm exhalations on her skin. And she wondered whether it was the after-effects of his illness that had caused the breathlessness or the nearness of her body to his. In the dusk she could see the faraway look in his eyes refocused on herself. She stared back, contradictory thoughts about her missing husband filling her mind, thoughts that disappeared as Josef’s face slowly crossed the remaining distance between them. The kiss lingered on her mouth, loving, tender, and full of desire.
A shout came again and abruptly he stooped and picked up the still sleeping form of her daughter and began the climb through the rain-wet grass back to the encampment.
23
Devastation
In the thick layer of mud at the bottom of the trench, Tom’s boots were invisible. He raised one foot slowly, the mud slurping and gurgling and trying to hold him down. When it was free of the stinking quagmire, he replaced it gingerly, for who knew what lay beneath the surface? Then he did the same with the other foot, anxious that if he didn’t keep them moving, he would be held fast to the base of the trench when the order came to advance.
The mud didn’t stop at his boots, of course. His puttees were thick with it. When they dried, which wasn’t often, he scraped the mud off them in slabs. Above them, his trousers were similarly caked. He was lucky though. He could have fared much worse. Many did.
Lucky? He had ceased believing in luck, good or bad. He had given up hoping for an end to this hellish existence. It was foolish even to think beyond getting through the next hour. He raised his eyes to the slice of grey sky above the rim of the trench. The insistent drizzle had abruptly increased to a deluge. With his free hand, he raised the collar of his greatcoat in a vain attempt to prevent water running down his neck. On second thoughts, though, it might help to drown the lice that had invaded his skin. Thoughts of the infestation made him involuntarily reach his hand inside his collar and scratch.
What would his family say if they could see him now? His family. He had severed all contact with them. In his anger he had determined that he would teach Ellen a lesson. He had written no letters, although he had received them regularly from her. She had told him about the pregnancy, and about the subsequent loss of the baby. Good riddance, he thought. It was probably not his baby anyway. He had not even written a letter to console her, though he knew well enough how upset she would have been. It was he who was suffering now though, of course, but his pride would not let him go back on the decision he had made. It was all futile anyway. The chances of him living another day, let alone to the end of the conflict, should it ever end, were minute.
It had been bad enough here before his leave. Fighting had been going on in this part of France since the beginning of hostilities. For almost three years now, the allies had been bombarding the Germans with all the ammunition they could throw at them and receiving theirs in like measure. The low-lying basin, divided by streams that fed into the River Yser, had once been prosperous agricultural land, but the constant bombardment had reduced it to a swamp. Tom, arriving fresh from the upland hills and valleys of southern Scotland, had not been able to believe his eyes at the scene of devastation that had met him and he would not have believed that it could get any worse.
The abrupt shrilling of a whistle and the order to ‘Advance’ brought with them the habitual surge of adrenaline. Dragging his feet along the trench to the bottom of the ladder, Tom waited his turn to go up. Mud from the boots of the private above him slopped onto his head, but he didn't bother to wipe it away, knowing that there would be worse by the end of the day. And then he was climbing, hampered by rifle and bayonet, the gas respirator strapped to his chest, a bandolier of cartridges over his shoulder. Up and up and over the top of the ladder onto the duckboards. And then slipping and sliding forward along these arteries in the morass, more scared of falling off into the shell holes on either side than of the whistle of bullets all around. The explosions of shells getting closer as Tom and his comrades advanced.
In the line ahead, a soldier fell, a bullet ripping through his leg. The private behind him, slithering to a stop, lost his foot
ing and the next second was off the duckboard and into the shell hole at its side. He floundered wildly, stepping on the bodies of dead soldiers, before being sucked beneath the surface. Tom stopped, staring in horror at where his colleague had been and seeing only the stinking mud with its cocktail of rotting flesh. He swallowed the urge to vomit as the man behind pushed him roughly onwards. He forced himself forward into the hail of bullets. A shell landed in a nearby crater of mud and its contents spewed out in all directions, stirring up the stench of rotting death and dissolved gas.
Ahead, Tom could see a German pillbox. If only he could reach it, he would be much safer. With one last effort, he covered the remaining yards and flung himself into the shelter. It was dark inside and already contained several soldiers and a foot of water. But its stinking interior was like heaven. Tom leaned against the thick wall, catching his breath. The man nearest to the door smiled at him.
‘Welcome home,’ he joked and handed Tom a cigarette.
For half an hour there was peace… not outside, where the shells continued to pound the battlefield… but here, within the protection of its thick walls, the soldiers could almost believe they were safe. More men joined them. They were packed together now. Suddenly, with an enormous thump, a shell hit the pillbox, almost lifting it into the air. The enemy had realised what was happening. If they could plant a shell in the correct position, they might tip the shelter over and the men would be drowned in the surrounding mud. What he had thought was a place of safety was no better than a trap. They were caught, the enemy’s guns trained on them, ready to fire should any of them try to leave.
Relentlessly, the bombardment continued. Another shell fell nearby and Tom put his hands over his ears. He would go mad if this carried on.
‘You OK, mate?’ His neighbour nudged him in the ribs. Tom opened his eyes and studied the man’s face in the gloom.
‘What did you say?’
‘I asked if you were all right. You look as though you’ve had more than enough.’
‘Haven’t we all? What a hellhole this is turning out to be.’
‘Still, if we can hold our position here, we’ll have made good progress.’
Tom snorted. ‘You reckon so? There’ll be none of us left at the end of this… if there ever is an end.’
‘You’ve got to believe that we’ll win in the end… to keep our country free and our wives and families safe.’
Tom said nothing.
‘You got any family, pal,’ the man asked.
‘I’ve a little girl. Year and a half she’ll be.’
‘There you are then. You have to think about her… and, no doubt there’s a pretty wife at home looking after her. Just imagine how it will be when you get…’
‘Shut up, can’t you! I don’t want to think about owt like that.’
‘Sorry, mate! Just trying to help. I can’t wait to get back to mine. Just hope she’s behaving herself while I’m away.’
Tom gritted his teeth. ‘Look! I know you’re only trying to help. But I happen to know mine’s not behaving herself!’
There was a pause. ‘Are you sure? The mind can do funny things when you’re out here. Imagine all kinds of things that aren’t true at all.’
‘Aye, well, I happen to know I’m right, more’s the pity.’
‘Where will you go then?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘After the war’s over. Will you go back to her?’
Tom’s mind, clouded with anger as it was whenever he thought about Ellen, had not considered this eventuality. To avoid thinking about it now, he replied, ‘Like I said, there is no end. And even if there were to be, I should go off my head just thinking about it.’
Outside, the shellfire had stopped and only sporadic gunfire could be heard. The men relaxed.
‘Well, lads,’ a lieutenant spoke up, taking charge. ‘It looks as though we’re here for the night. I suggest we all try to get some shut-eye, though we’ll have to take shifts. Sorry about the supper.’
Tom struggled to make out the position of his neighbours in the encroaching dark. Better than a night in the trenches, I suppose, he thought to himself. He was perched on a narrow ledge about two foot six off the ground and clear of the stinking water. It was so narrow that to fall asleep was to be in danger of rolling off into it. But to stay awake was to risk being too exhausted for the next day’s forward push. And, anyway, it was only sleep that would bring the oblivion Tom craved.
24
The Happy Berry Tree
The grave of Janet Tonner, Duncan Simpson’s young wife, could be found at the far side of the shady graveyard, a spot picked for its view over the distant hills that she had loved so much. In the years since her death, a rowan sapling, at first scarcely bigger than the headstone beside which it grew, had reached maturity and a proliferation of unripe berries promised a fine show in a few weeks’ time. Duncan had told his daughter often about the ability of the tree to ward off evil spirits. He imagined it protecting her long-dead mother, he explained to Ellen, in a way that he had been unable to do during her life.
Ellen had visited the grave frequently, at first with her father but in later years on her own. She too loved the rowan, but less for its magical properties than for the smoothness of its grey trunk and its feathery leaves and profusion of orange fruit. ‘The happy berry tree’ she had called it as a child, and the name had stayed with her into adult life. Today, however, she gave the engraved stone and its protecting tree only a passing glance before joining the small group of men making their way towards a mound of freshly dug earth, a little removed from the other graves. Did God take sides in this awful war that seemed to have no end, she wondered, as she followed the procession. Was Oliver Tauber the enemy in God’s eyes, as well as in those of the people in whose land he had died.
Her request to accompany the funeral procession had been greeted with surprise by Captain Cameron-Dyet, but there had been no objection. Her reasons for wishing to attend the short graveyard service were twofold. The tall aristocratic university teacher had been kind to her and Netta. She was sad that none of his family could be there to mourn his passing and felt that she at least was the nearest contact he had had to a proper family. But also she wished to give what support she was able to Josef, who had felt the loss of his friend so keenly. It was only when they stood in a semicircle around the deep hole that he looked up and realised she was there.
The service began. It was read in English but that, Ellen decided, would be entirely acceptable to Oliver, whose grasp of the language was so good. Josef stood, head bowed, between two prison guards. Next to them stood the captain, his erect bearing and serious expression giving no hint of his inner feelings.
It was soon over. The body was lowered into the ground, the piercing blue eyes never again to see his beloved Fatherland. The irony of his last resting place in the mud of the graveyard struck her as it must have the others.
She glanced at Josef, who still stood with bowed head, staring into the hole. Then they were leaving, making their way back along the path to where the truck was waiting to return them to the camp. Ellen watched them go, wondering whether to take the opportunity to visit her mother’s grave. Deciding she would, she had taken only a couple of steps off the track when she heard the captain’s voice.
‘Would you like a lift with us, Mrs Fairclough? It’s a long way to walk and there’s plenty of room in the truck… unless you had something else to do, of course.’
She hesitated a moment and then smiled at the captain. ‘Aye, I will, thank you. I was going to visit my mother’s grave while I was here, but it will do another day. And I should be getting back to my daughter, so Father can get on with his work. I’ve been long enough away from her.’
‘Take your time, Mrs Fairclough. We’ll wait for you at the truck. You go and visit your mother. A few more minutes won’t make any difference.’
The flowers that Ellen had placed in front of her mother’s headstone at the last vis
it had withered and she spent a few minutes tidying the plot. Sitting back on her heels, she wiped tears from her eyes. The words of the funeral service had reawakened the deeply buried ache of longing to have a mother, whose advice she could seek and with whom she could have shared her thoughts and worries. But it was not to be – and she had to concentrate on her own daughter now. With a final glance, she rose to her feet and went over to the truck.
Ellen climbed up into the seat next to the captain and for a while they travelled in silence. At last she turned to look at Josef, seated between the two guards. It was the first time she had seen him since Oliver's death, though she had wrestled with contradictory feelings ever since that fateful day.
‘How are you, Josef? Are you keeping well?’
‘Thank you. I am well. I am very glad you come.’
‘I wanted to be here. He was a good man.’
‘Yes. He was a good man. I shall much miss him.’
‘You speak English very well now, Josef. Have you been practising?’
‘It is Oliver. He teach me to speak English. All I know I learn from him. No, that is not correct. My first words I learn from you.’
She gave a soft laugh. ‘I’m no teacher… not like Oliver. But I could teach you more, if the captain would allow it.’ She glanced over at the captain, but he was staring ahead and seemed not to notice their conversation.
‘I would like. But I think there is no time now to learn. It is all work, work, work to finish the building. The towns, they need water to make the guns to kill the enemy, is it not true?’
She said nothing. What was there to be said?
*
In the weeks that followed, Ellen often saw Josef on her excursions to and from the Murdie farmhouse. Margaret Murdie was the next best thing to a mother that Ellen had. The older woman had heard little from her son, and Ellen nothing at all from her husband, so they felt themselves to be allies. Each week, and sometimes twice a week, Ellen would walk, pushing Netta in her perambulator, the mile and a half to Margaret’s house and back again.