by S C Worrall
‘How’s the chair, sir?’
Martin brings it in to the table, spreads his arms and hands on the desk. ‘Perfect.’
‘I’m putting the shelves here . . . ’ Cripps takes the plank and holds it along the back wall. ‘That way you can free up a bit of space on the desk.’
Martin looks at Cripps with a renewed feeling of warmth and respect. Though he is his senior in rank, Martin feels he is Cripps’ junior in every other way. Always willing to pitch in or give common sense advice when Martin is in a panic, this strong, capable carpenter from northern Buckinghamshire had become almost a father figure to Martin in the months they had served together. ‘How’s your nephew doing?’
‘He’s fine, thank you, sir.’ Cripps puts the pencil behind his ear and starts to drill a hole in the wall. ‘I promised my sister I’d bring him home. And that’s what I’m going to do.’
‘Good man.’
Cripps finishes drilling the holes for the shelves, then goes to the door. ‘I’ll leave you in peace now, sir.’
‘Can you get the men ready for ten thirty?’
Cripps salutes and steps outside. Martin opens his briefcase and takes out a photo in a little red leather frame. It shows Nancy, in a blue dress, standing at the gate of Blythe Cottage. He kisses it, then places it on the desk, lights a cigarette and starts sorting through the jumble of papers that have piled up while he was away. There are letters to censor, demands for dommages de guerre, bills to pay, requisition forms, and bulging files of correspondence between Corps HQ in Douai, Divisional HQ and the battalion. Every activity or training session has to be recorded in triplicate, signed and countersigned, then filed. Bureaucracy is the Army’s speciality.
He starts with the letters, working steadily through the pile with his special censor’s pen, blacking out all place names, dates or any other strategic information. Next, he turns his attention to the bills. They are mostly for provisions and wine. He checks the figures, makes sure they tally, signs each one, then files the bottom copy. It’s tedious, mind-numbing work. But by ten thirty he has almost cleared the desk. He shuts the photo away in the drawer, puts on his cap and goes to find his men.
They have been ordered to drive to Mons-en-Pévèle, a hilltop village ten miles away, not far from the Belgian border, to repair a series of First World War fortifications, which are being integrated into what is now called the Gort Line, after the commander of the last British Expeditionary Force, General Lord Gort, or, to give him his full name, Field Marshal John Standish Surtees Prendergast Vereker, 6th Viscount Gort.
Like BB, the Bucks Battalion commander, ‘Tiger Gort’ learned his soldiering in the trenches of the First War. He’s undoubtedly brave. Won a VC at the Battle of the Canal Du Nord. The Gort Line is meant to be Britain’s answer to the Maginot Line. But everyone knows it is a complete waste of men and materials: a dinosaur from a bygone age when war was static. Blitzkrieg are the tactics the Germans employ now: fast-moving German Panzer divisions. They will probably simply bypass the Gort Line. And attack somewhere else.
As Martin and his men set to work on a hillside, repairing a pillbox dating from 1916, he has a grim sense of the futility of war. But at least it’s a glorious spring day. A hot sun beats down on the roof of the church. Skylarks hang in a perfect, blue sky, pouring their song across the fields. The year’s first butterflies greedily suck nectar from the flowers. Even the granite cross remembering the dead of the First World War cannot dampen Martin’s pleasure at being outside.
After an hour, he leaves Cripps with half the men to continue work on the pillbox and takes the rest of the platoon to dig out an overgrown anti-tank ditch. The ditch runs about twenty yards either side of the road, at the edge of a pear orchard. He strips off his jacket and shirt and hangs them on a branch, noticing how out of place the uniform looks against the blossom.
They work slowly and steadily across the hillside. He enjoys the physical labour: the heft of a shovel in his hand, the ripple of his muscles, the feeling of the sun on his bare back; the textures of wood and brick, the satisfaction of construction. It stops him thinking about Nancy. The ground is soft after the spring rains and the men have become expert in their work. By lunchtime, they have cleared the old trench of undergrowth and begun to dig out the new section.
To heat water for tea, they build a fire in a hollow on the side of the hill then divvy up the food: pork pies, apples, bread and cheese. The men take off their boots and puttees (bandages wrapped around their lower legs) and sit back in the grass to eat. Martin takes a pencil and a pad of paper and writes up a report of the morning’s work, swatting away the flies rising from the warm grass, enjoying the sun on his shoulders. Below him, the land falls away to the Escaut river plain: a swathe of shimmering, blue-green fields planted with endives and potato. The Belgian border is only a few miles away.
‘Cup of tea, sir.’ Jenkins, the driver, hands Martin a steaming tin mug.
‘Thanks.’ Martin takes the mug and sips the hot tea, then tears a hunk of bread off and slots a piece of cheese into it. He feels happy, working with his men, out in the sun.
Cripps points up into the sky. ‘Plane, sir, at twelve o’clock.’
The men stop eating and stare up into the sky. Martin takes his binoculars and studies the plane.
‘One of ours, sir?’
Martin watches as the plane dips lower and passes overhead. ‘One of theirs, I think,’ he says. ‘Heinkel.’ He keeps the binos locked on the intruder. ‘Spotter plane, by the looks of it.’
Back at HQ, Martin files his report then soaks in a hot bath. The news of the spotter plane has already gone round the chateau: one more sign that the Germans are not far away. He lies down on his bed and takes a quick nap, then dresses and goes downstairs. Hugh Saunders is waiting for him by the door. ‘There’s going to be some “entertainment” at Le Leu Pendu tonight,’ he says. ‘Fancy coming?’
‘What sort of entertainment?’
‘An ancient French sport.’ Hugh grins.
‘Jousting?’ Martin shakes his head. ‘Fencing?’
‘Wait and see.’
They take Martin’s motorbike and head towards Thumieres. The roads are dusty now and, after a few yards, Martin stops and puts on his goggles. A farm cart creaks by, loaded with firewood. Martin waves and heads down the gentle incline towards the forest.
The gravel outside the Hanging Wolf is packed with carts and military vehicles. French and British officers, some of the former with their wives, spill out of the door, drinking and smoking in the cool evening air. Martin and Hugh elbow their way inside and find a table at the back.
The ‘entertainment’ begins before dinner. The centre of the dining room is roped off, then four burly farmers bring in a circular wooden frame, a bit like a child’s playpen, and set it inside the ropes. Two others wheel in a barrow of sawdust and tip it into the frame. A bookmaker sets a blackboard up by the bar. The crowd presses up against the ropes in a cloud of smoke and alcohol fumes, stamping their feet.
‘Worked it out yet?’ Hugh whispers into Martin’s ear.
Before he can answer, two farmers in dark-blue cotton overalls and flat caps carry in a pair of enclosed wicker baskets. Inside are two cockerels: one is jet black, with bright red wattles, the other is the colour of cinnamon.
‘It’s a big thing here in the Pas de Calais,’ says Hugh. ‘Most of it is done in barns, but in Lille they have so-called gallodromes, where big crowds go to watch the cockfights.’
The owners clamber into the improvised cockpit with their charges, take them out of the cages and hold them up for the crowd to see. They both have razor-sharp silver spurs attached to their legs. Bets are placed, the spectators passing wads of ten thousand franc notes to the bookie, who calls out the odds in a guttural, rapid-fire dialect Martin doesn’t understand. Then the referee steps into the ring and calls the two men to his side. There is a brief discussion of the rules, then the cockerels are released.
The black on
e is the first to make a move, launching itself at the cinnamon-coloured bird in a frenzy of clucking and feathers. The birds lock talons, then tumble to the floor, kicking and flapping and pecking. The black cockerel clambers on top and starts to jab its spurs into the sides of the other bird. A farmer next to Martin begins to scream and shout at the cinnamon-coloured bird to get up. There’s a flurry of wings and flailing spurs, the black bird is knocked off and the cinnamon-coloured bird starts to attack in a blood-curdling frenzy of feathers and beaks that only ends when the referee steps in and pulls the birds apart. Both birds are bleeding from chest wounds inflicted by the spurs. But, after a brief intermission, the battle begins again. Less than a minute later, the black cockerel lies bleeding to death on its side, its wings twitching spasmodically, its eyes glazing over.
Martin can’t decide whether he is more disgusted by the savagery of the birds or the bloodlust of the crowd. What if Nancy could see him now? She would be horrified. And this realization that he has witnessed one more thing that he must keep secret makes him feel suddenly distant from her, as though he is living a life that she could never understand or be a part of. And that he cannot share. When two more cockerels are released into the cockpit, he stands up and tells Hugh he is going outside for a smoke.
He spends the next ten days shuttling back and forth to Mons-en-Pévèle, working with his men in the sunshine on top of the hill. On their last day, Hugh drives up with two crates of beer he has scrounged from the quartermaster. They stretch out on the grass at the Pas Roland, surrounded by the ghosts of ancient battles, the grass fizzing with crickets, the orchards white with blossom, the horizon shimmering in the distance, Martin’s body strong and tanned, his heart blessed in the knowledge of her love.
After lunch, Martin takes Hugh to see the new fortifications. ‘They call it Cripps Castle,’ he says, pointing at the concrete pillbox.
Hugh walks around it, admiring the craftsmanship, then Martin opens the metal door and they step inside. Bars of sunlight shine through the gun slits. The newly laid concrete gives off a damp, musty smell. ‘It seems another life, doesn’t it?’ Hugh says. ‘That day we played tennis with Nancy and my sister. Remember?’
‘How can I forget? You passed me at the net about six times!’ Martin closes the door and leads Saunders back down the road to the anti-tank ditch. ‘Have you heard from them recently?’
‘Got a long letter from my sister about ten days ago. Mother has had a cold. Sister is as obnoxious as ever. How about you? How is Nancy after your flying visit to Cornwall?’
‘Bearing up. Busy. Missing me.’ Martin looks away. ‘It feels like a million miles away.’
Hugh nods, admiring the anti-tank ditch, with its timber lining and concertina wire, wishing he had a woman back home he could miss, too. ‘That should hold Jerry up for a while.’ Hugh jumps down into the ditch and peers over the top.
‘Assuming they come from that direction,’ says Martin, his voice heavy with sarcasm. ‘The rumour is they are massing in the Ardennes.’
‘Probably a diversion.’ Hugh climbs back out of the trench. ‘Everyone knows the Ardennes are completely impassable.’
Martin anxiously scans the horizon. ‘Let’s hope so.’
The moon is rising over the trees when they get back to the chateau. Hugh suggests a drink at the bar, but Martin goes straight to his new office. He wants to be alone with Nancy again. Taking the photo out of the drawer, he props it on the desk then pulls out a sheaf of notepaper headed with the battalion’s crest.
His nails still have concrete under them, his shirt is stained with dark patches of sweat. But he fills his pen from a glass bottle, drawing the ink slowly into the barrel, like a doctor filling a syringe. The sound of a Scott Joplin piano rag drifts up from the officers’ mess below, interspersed with laughter. War may be coming but the spring has lifted everyone’s spirits.
He brings the pen to the paper and writes in the top left corner: HQ. Officers’ Mess, 1st Bucks Btn. B.E.F. France. 4 May 1940.
The sound of ragtime echoes through the stone walls. Tapping his foot in time to the beat, he begins to move the nib across the paper.
Nancy, my darling. The chestnut trees with their ‘Easter candles all aflame’ have been reminding me of one very special time on the river with you. That perfect lazy kind of carriage, the punt, seems a thing of the past but, darling, shall we visit Oxford one day while I’m on leave?
I’ve been seeing springtime arriving, too, but time and les affaires militaires won’t allow me to lose myself in its atmosphere. Blossom is cheering all the little orchards here but khaki doesn’t mix with pear blossom colour. As my friend, Pte Jenkins says: ‘Say la ruddy guerre.’ Today is a warm day, a little enervating, which makes me feel a bit irritable – like one of those days in summer at Oxford when I felt I was wasting my time. If only we were chez nous knowing that nothing waited on our office clerks for immediate attention. This war has produced a monstrous flow of correspondence, quite outdoing all peacetime records. Always there is something new.
After I left you on that platform, in that station so full of an atmosphere I’ve never felt before, I settled down with the lads and we gossiped away. Most of them had spent sleepless hours in London and many good sovereigns on aimless pleasure. I thought how perfect it was to have an aim like you. We reached the port about two hours later, moved ourselves to the big hotel there, which is being used as an officers’ transit camp. Each of us was allotted a bed, to which we soon went. I shared a room with a charming young Scots Officer with a bulldog puppy, which he was taking over to his unit. The puppy wasn’t well trained; and I thought it strange to be sharing a bleak room in a formerly prosperous hotel with an unknown young Scotsman and a bulldog puppy. Early in the morning we were roused, then we crossed the sea in pleasant sunshine, quite smoothly, with aeroplanes stunting above us. The train journey passed dustily. And I was back here late that evening. I returned to find a rather grim mess. The Lieutenant Colonel, BB, has rejoined us and Major Sale is about to go back to England. Let’s pray we see him again. BB just isn’t good enough. He may be a clever-minded man and a bit of a tactician, but I wonder if he is young enough to work hard. The adjutant is looking worried. Don’t spread this too far, darling, one hates to be disloyal to one’s colonel, but it’s so obvious that a battalion depends on its commander for a firm and soldier-like example.
I’ve been working hard already, because at last I have persuaded the orderly room to let me train my platoon properly instead of having to send them off every day on a lot of builders’ merchant jobs. I’ve been out with them making positions and bridges and things. Our favourite place is up on a hill where we’ve been repairing some vital posts. We ‘pick nick’ up there and work on our own without any interruption. Today being Saturday Hugh came out for lunch in the sun and brought some beer for us all. He sends his love. All next week there is to be quite a large exercise. I am to be an umpire, that involves lots of work with observations, reports, etc., and we’ll have to work about twenty hours in twenty-four.
Militiamen have arrived in the battalion. They are good lads mostly from near London. I’ve been giving them some of my hardly won information about gas. I’ve not heard the result of the course yet. But I’m not worrying. On my visit to Cornwall I learned some new things and proved something to myself. The time with you is just what should make up the best years of my life. I always knew it would be so. You are so much part of me. I’ll always feel that deep happy feeling about you.
I saw some cockfighting the other evening at the Leu Pendu. It revolted us rather and I don’t think I’ll bother to go again. But I met a French family who had me to dinner at their home afterwards. That was the first reasonable private house I’ve been in since we’ve been around here. They were all simple but charming and kind. The French seem to have found the best way of living: no inessentialities, so they can live happily on very little.
My motorcycle has just been overhauled. It goes well now. I
fell off a few days ago when the back tyre burst going round a corner. No damage done to me except a bruised hand and a scratch or two. My hair is full of dust from these roads. The men are beginning to worry about the summer heat. They will find it quite a strain I expect.
Someone is going to suffer a jolt on account of this Norwegian mismanagement. I’m sure it’s the government’s fault rather than the Army, which has done well with the time and resources, which the government has seen fit to give them.
But why worry! Oh, darling, all I worry about is yourself, your joy, your health, and our love and then I don’t worry any more because I’m sure it can’t all be for nothing, can it? I long to kiss you, darling, and to linger. Imagine I have.
All my love, Martin.
6 MAY 1940
Wahagnies
Martin sits in the mess after breakfast, hoping to grab a few minutes alone with Nancy before the day’s duties begin. There’s a new sense of urgency, and unease, in the battalion. Wireless intercepts suggest that a German attack on Belgium is imminent. So this may be the last opportunity he has to write a letter for some time.
He takes out his pen, smooths a thin, blue sheet of paper on the table, as kitchen orderlies noisily clear plates and mugs from the table.
He is just about to set pen to paper when Cripps appears over his shoulder.
‘Sorry to bother you, sir, but the lorry is all ready to go.’
Martin looks at his watch, sighs, folds up the paper and puts it and the pen inside his tunic with a sigh. ‘Are the men already out on exercise?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good.’
Jenkins steers the Panopticon into the courtyard of the farmhouse at the bottom of the hill where most of the men are billeted. Martin sits grimly staring out of the window, dreading what they are about to do. But orders are orders.