A Last Goodbye

by Dee Yates

  He put his hand up to check in his pocket for pen and paper… and his fingers felt the package that contained his photographs. He drew it out and separated the two pictures. Even in the darkness he could identify his wife’s by the rough edges of the folder that protected it. He replaced this in his inner pocket. Without stopping for further thought, he dropped the rest of the package into the deep mud at the bottom of the trench and trampled it beneath his boots.

  *

  There was no time to write. As dawn broke, the men were moved forward to the firing line. The fine spell of September weather, while it had given the soldiers some respite, was not long enough or hot enough to make any marked improvement on the condition of the battlefield. Ploughed up time and time again by the constant bombardment from the machine gunners, there was no solid ground left to walk on. Only the most recent shell holes, not yet filled with water, were safe to shelter in. And October brought the rain again. Mile after mile of land became nothing but a huge sea of mud.

  Tom knew without a doubt that he was ‘for it’ this time. He could not go on and on seeing his pals die in their dozens all round him. By the law of averages, it must be his turn soon. He almost wished for it… as long as the wound was sufficient only to put him out of action and give him a pass for Blighty, where, in time, he would make a recovery; though hopefully not complete enough to send him back to action on the front line. He dreaded the thought of the loss of an arm or leg or getting blinded, all of which would mean he could no longer get back to shepherding. Better death than that. Above all, he dreaded death by drowning in one of the hundreds of filthy, flooded shell holes that lay like booby traps on either side of the disintegrating duckboards.

  The surface of the battleground was so bad now that it was impossible to move the heavy guns. Their range was such that they barely reached the German front and, if the enemy were forced to retreat, the machine guns would then be rendered quite useless.

  Tom shivered uncontrollably. He and two of his mates had been in a shell hole for three days and it was rapidly filling with water. The one redeeming feature was that there were only three dead bodies in it. Unfortunately, Tom thought, none of them were the enemy.

  October had not only brought the rain. It had brought the cold too. Tom and his mates were soaked to the skin, covered in mud, their fingers and toes numb with exposure. Their emergency rations were all but used up. Not that he felt hungry. His nerves were too on edge for that. For the last three days they had been under constant bombardment. They did not dare to lift their heads above the rim of the shell hole for it would mean certain death. They were well within the enemies’ sights now.

  Tom stared at the yellowish oozing surface of the water, now filling the hole to half its depth. How much more could he stand of this? Should he shoot himself in the foot? That would get him out of the line of action. But would it? There were very few people left to rescue the injured… and, as time went on, the soldiers were concerned less with assisting their injured comrades and more with preserving their own lives. And who could blame them? No, if he gave himself a self-inflicted wound, he was most likely to finish up in the depths of the shell hole. Perhaps he would be better shooting himself through the heart… ending it all before one of the Hun did it for him.

  One of his comrades was talking.

  ‘The shelling’s over, pal. Let’s get out of this while we’re able to.’

  Tom listened. His comrade was right. There was sporadic gunfire but the shelling had stopped. It was an effort to move. He had lain in the mud for so long that his legs and back were stiff.

  He heaved himself out after the other two men, just in time to catch the blast of a huge shell that landed several yards in front of him and catapulted him back with a mass of lethal shrapnel into the stinking water of the crater he had just left.

  26

  Bitter Times to Come

  Ellen had long since stopped worrying about the possibility of the graveyard being haunted with the ghosts of those who lay beneath its stone crosses and angels. Even the skulls and bones carved on the oldest tombstones no longer alarmed her. Accompanied by Josef and the captain, she had no fears.

  It was a month before the captain knocked at the door of the shepherd’s cottage and offered her a lift. Autumn was advancing and the air felt different now, an edge to it that told of bitter times to come. Already there had been one fall of snow, the remains of which still clung to the tops of the hills. Ellen thought often of how awful it must be for the soldiers serving at the front.

  There had still been no word from Tom. She wrote often, letters that were full of news of the farm and of the antics of his young daughter. But his continued silence angered her and, when she thought about it, so did her treatment at his hands when he had last been at home. What made matters worse was the contrast with the polite and affectionate way she was treated by Josef. If only things had been different and they had met earlier.

  ‘Is it very cold in the prison huts now?’ Ellen began, once she had settled in the truck.

  ‘It was more cold in the tents! Now it is, how you say, cosy.’ He took her hand and squeezed it. ‘I miss you, Ellen. I wish to speak with you… often. I do not sleep because I think about you.’

  Ellen turned to him with a beaming smile, almost forgetting to keep her voice down. ‘Then why don’t I come and see you at night?’

  ‘But, Liebling, it is snow now and the guards.’

  ‘Are the guards there all the time?’

  ‘No. They walk past our hut each half-hour.’

  ‘Then I can come and talk to you. When the guard is due to come, I will hide and come out again when he is gone. Easy!’

  *

  It was, as Ellen said, easy. Easy but risky and, at times, uncomfortable, especially for Ellen. There were occasional nights when the air was unexpectedly mild. But more often, chilling winds tore through the valley, carrying Ellen along with them and whipping her dress round her ankles and her hair round her face. The homeward journey against the wintry gusts exhausted her. November brought a return of the snow, which lay a week and prevented Ellen's visits, telltale footprints likely to lead to discovery of what they were doing.

  For Josef too, the assignations were accompanied by uncertain waits in freezing weather. He would listen for the steady tramp of the passing guard fading into the distance. Then he would leave the hut, closing the door silently behind him, and cross to the wire, attempting to stifle a bout of coughing brought on by the cold air. Ellen, crouched behind a distant bush, would emerge and hurry towards him. Difficult though the conditions were, neither of them would have forgone this opportunity to meet.

  Their conversation was commonplace. Josef spoke of the day’s activities; the progress of the building work, the friendships and petty rivalries between the prisoners, the animosity from Gunter Vogel.

  ‘But why does he treat you like this?’ Ellen asked. ‘You are all alike as prisoners. What does he have against you?’

  ‘In our country not all people live happy together. Here, I think, also.’

  Ellen shrugged. ‘Aye. I suppose so.’

  ‘What you do, Ellen? How is your day?’

  She smiled in the darkness. ‘Oh, it was quite an exciting day. I helped Father put the tups out onto the hills. They’re the male sheep. It’s exciting for them, anyway! It’s the only time they get to be with their ladies.’

  Josef laughed softly. ‘They have not a wire as we have.’ He threaded his fingers through the barricade and gently shook it. Ellen brought her hands close and he took hold of her fingers and massaged the cold skin.

  ‘If only there was no wire,’ Ellen murmured.

  ‘I still stay here. I do not wish to escape. I wish with you to stay.’

  Ellen’s heart gave a thud. ‘You know my husband may come home at any time.’

  ‘Yes? You have a letter?’

  ‘No, no letter.’ She shrugged. ‘I don’t know what’s happening.’

  ‘So we are
friends now. Let us be happy now, yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And we are close friends, yes?’ Josef kissed the freezing fingers that were now entwined with his.

  At other times, Ellen taught him new words of English or corrected mistakes made during the course of his reading. Occasionally he taught her some German. Mostly, though, he talked about his country and his family.

  ‘Forgive,’ he said one night. ‘I talk much about my family. You are sad, no, that you have no mother, no brothers and sisters?’

  ‘Sometimes I’m sad. I never knew my mother, so I don’t know what it would have been like to have one. I would have liked brothers and sisters.’ She looked at his face, so close to hers in the darkness. ‘You must be my brother.’

  ‘Is that what you wish, that I am your brother?’ His face fell.

  ‘No.’ In truth she wished for something else entirely but knew that it could never be.

  ‘It is not what I wish too.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. This is what I wish.’ He leaned towards her and kissed her lips through the wire. ‘I wish this,’ he whispered, ‘And more.’

  Ellen felt a wave of emotion flood through her. ‘More?’

  ‘Yes. More. I think you understand.’ He raised his hand and once more pushed his fingers through the wire to touch the tears on her cheeks. ‘And I think you also wish more.’

  She ran that night back to the farm, an uneasy mix of elation, frustration and guilty despair swirling within her agile body.

  *

  At the end of November, the weather cleared. A near full moon appeared between scudding clouds, lending an almost daytime brightness to Ellen’s walk and her meeting with Josef.

  ‘Ha! I see you tonight, Liebling. That is good.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Of course. You are very beautiful. Sehr schön, we say at home.’

  ‘Sehr schön?’

  ‘Ja! That is right.’

  A sudden flurry of shouts and thumps came from the direction of one of the huts.

  ‘What’s that?’ gasped Ellen nervously.

  ‘Some men… they… er… not agree.’

  ‘You mean they’ve had an argument?’

  ‘Ja. I think they argue still.’

  ‘But why? What is the matter?’

  ‘Soon it is Weinachten…Christmas. The men, they wish to be with their families. They do not like to be here… prisoners.’ Josef lifted his face to the moon and stared at it. ‘You remember last Christmas?’

  ‘Of course. You so ill and me looking after you.’

  ‘And you give me sweets. I have the box still.’

  ‘Have you?’

  ‘Of course. When I to my home return, I have this to remember you. This year I have a gift for you and one for Netta.’

  ‘Have you? Her heart lifted at this revelation but fell again as she thought of the Christmas to come. 'I wish you could be with us, like you were last year… only not ill, of course!’

  ‘I wish it also.’ He put his face to the wire and she kissed his lips. ‘But in Germany we give gifts early – on St Nicolas Day, the six of December. Next week I bring a gift for you. We must… how you say it? Make the most.’

  Ellen shivered. ‘I wish you didn’t have to go back to Germany.’

  The shouts came again, louder this time, and then a sudden flare of brightness. At the same time a whistle blew and the sound of running feet coming closer made them abruptly draw apart.

  ‘Schnell! Hide!’ Josef said hastily and Ellen sank into the long grass at the other side of the road and rolled into the safety of the bushes. She watched as the guard thudded into view, wrenching open the door of the hut. In the brightness, men tumbled out and the guard rounded them up at gunpoint. From the direction of the officer’s hut, soldiers appeared, hurriedly pulling on jumpers and coats.

  A sharp crack drew Ellen’s eyes back to the hut. The windows had shattered. Flames licked around the open door. Officers were lining up the prisoners, handing out buckets, unlocking the gate. The line of men stretched towards the river, flanked by the guards. So absorbed was she by the unfolding spectacle that she didn’t notice a slim figure dart out under cover of a passing cloud. When Josef crept up to her, she almost cried out with shock, forestalled by his lips pressed hard on hers.

  ‘Josef! What are you doing? You’ll be caught,’ she gasped at last in a frightened chuckle.

  ‘Like I say, Liebling, we must “make the most”.’ He stared at her face, pale in the moonlight, her hair wild, eyes startled as a rabbit’s. ‘You are very beautiful. Tonight you are the most beautiful.’ He ran his fingers through the tangle of hair onto her shoulders and slowly sank with her onto the bed of dry bracken in the shelter of the bushes.

  27

  Something to Hide

  Ellen was so shocked when the postman handed her the brown envelope that she had to sit down quickly on the old seat outside the cottage. This collision of events – the arrival of a letter from the War Office coming so soon after she had shown her feelings for Josef – took the wind out of her sails.

  ‘Are you all right, hen?’ The postman looked at her with a frown. ‘It may not be as bad as you think. Your man may be injured, no more than that – and it may not be serious. Best to open it and see. I’ll call Duncan to come and give you a wee bit of courage.’

  By the time Duncan had been located and had hurried up to the cottage, Ellen was inside and had the open letter in her lap.

  ‘What is it, lassie? What’s happened?’

  ‘He’s coming home. He’s been wounded. He’s in hospital at the moment but they’re sending him home to convalesce.’

  ‘Does it say what his injuries are?’

  ‘No.’ She gave a frightened sob. ‘Oh Feyther. Suppose he’s lost an arm or a leg. What’ll we do?’ Her deceit over Josef was making her feel sick.

  ‘We’ll look after him, that’s what. Anyway, lass, we’ve no idea what his injury is. It may be nothing much at all.’ He took the letter from her and held it up to the light. ‘Does it say when we’re to expect him home?’ He perused the writing, before taking up the envelope from the table and turning it over.

  ‘Well, look at this. The letter’s been a long time reaching us. It was written a month ago.’

  Two days later a telegram was delivered. It stated that Tom would be arriving in the village at 4.04pm on Tuesday 4th December and would transport please be arranged as the soldier was in no condition to walk.

  ‘That’s tomorrow,’ Ellen stammered.

  ‘Aye, lass. You’ll be excited about seeing him again. And home in time for Christmas too.’

  *

  As the Carlisle to Glasgow train drew into the station, Tom reached down to retrieve his crutch from under the seat. He was weary with travelling. The first train had left London at five in the morning and this one that he was now leaving was the third he had taken that day. He had heaved himself in and out of each and made his way between platforms until he felt he could do so no more. Tucking his crutch under his arm, he made for the door. A nurse, who was accompanying another soldier into Glasgow, lifted his kitbag from the rack and Tom skilfully manoeuvred himself out of the carriage and onto the platform.

  The train grumbled out of the station towards its final destination and he stood in the thinning smoke. A small group was clustered at the entrance to the platform and he watched as a woman hardly older than a girl step slowly towards him. She held the hand of a toddler and, with a shock, he realised that they were his wife and child. Ellen seemed taller and she had grown slim in his absence. Netta, only a baby when he had last seen her, had changed beyond recognition.

  ‘Hello, Tom.’ His wife’s voice was quiet, subdued even. ‘How are you? Here, let me help with your bag.’

  ‘Don’t I get a kiss then?’ he asked.

  ‘Aye. Of course you do. I thought maybe, after not hearing from you for such a long time…’ Her voice trailed off.

  ‘…That I didn
’t care for you anymore?’ He finished her sentence.

  ‘You didn’t write.’

  ‘No.’ He looked over Ellen’s shoulder and saw his father-in-law approaching. ‘Duncan’s coming. We’ll talk about it later.’ He bent and kissed his wife on the cheek, before holding out his hand to Duncan.

  ‘Is that you back, lad?’ His father-in-law’s tone was brusque. ‘What have you done to yourself?’

  ‘Nothing that will stop me looking after the sheep, thank goodness.’ He let go of Duncan’s hand and felt the soft curls of his daughter’s head.

  ‘She’s grown.’

  ‘She’s nearly two.’

  ‘I’m back just in time for her birthday.’ He put a finger under her chin and tilted her head so he could scrutinise her.

  Netta pulled away and looked at her mother uncertainly.

  ‘It’s a long time since she saw you. Give her time. She’ll come round.’

  ‘I’ve plenty of that, any road. I’ll be convalescing for a couple of months, the doctor reckons.’

  ‘What happened, Tom?’

  ‘Shrapnel in my leg. They got it away, like, several pieces, and the wounds are healed. But one piece went into my knee and it’s still very stiff. I’ve to use a crutch till the end of this week, the doctor says. Then I’ve to start walking on it to get rid of the stiffness. Any road, let’s get home. We can talk about this some other time. I hope I haven’t got to walk all the way!’

  ‘Of course not. We’ve got the wagon.’

  ‘Home in style then!’

  Tom hobbled out of the station to the waiting wagon, pleased that he had managed to maintain the light-hearted mood he had decided upon. Archie stood patiently, hitched up to the wagon and when he saw Tom, he whinnied softly. At the sight of him, Tom’s mind flew immediately to all those horses he had seen dead and maimed on the battlefield. His mouth contorted and he stepped up to the animal and buried his face in its mane to hide his emotion.

  ‘Are you all right, Tom?’ Ellen laid a hand on his arm.