The Soldier's Song

by Alan Monaghan

  II November 1916

  I write this while I wait for the train to take me to Poperinghe. I’m commanding a replacement draft as far as the front and it is a relief to be on the move at last.

  At least Kelly’s court martial came out well. He has been sent home as medically unfit – not a very glorious end to his career but better than being shot. It was good old Metcalfe who carried the day. He went riding with the major this morning and brought him back much more amenable to our verdict. I don’t know what was said but I only hope Metcalfe didn’t threaten him with his revolver!

  Another bright spot is the letter that came for me before I left camp. It’s from Lillian – I haven’t opened it yet, but I recognize her handwriting on the envelope. I’m saving it for later. This draughty bloody train station isn’t exactly the nicest of places, but I’m sure I’ll see worse over the next few days and I’ll probably need something to cheer me up.

  It is getting cold now. Sitting on this blacked-out platform, it’s hard not to dwell on morbid thoughts. Dark questions chase one another through my mind. I wonder how well I will hold up against the line? How long will I last? How will it end? The odds are not good. Before this I managed not to think too much about death, but it seems much closer now. Hospital trains unload here and the detritus of war flows past us. They come packed in wagons marked Homines 40 Chevaux 8. Most are French, with their dull blue greatcoats draped over the stretchers and they look shattered; filthy, sunken-cheeked, and with deep black eyes that fix on us as they are carried past. I can’t help wondering if I will end up like that.

  * * *

  The train took all night and half the morning to reach Poperinghe. Then it was a convoy of rattling buses to the Sixteenth Division HQ in Locre, a few miles south-west of Ypres. Stephen watched the flat countryside out of the window. Belgium now, not France. The anteroom of the war: waterlogged fields dimpled with shell craters and every house turned into a billet or headquarters.

  Locre was nothing but headquarters. Forms, paperwork, waiting. Evening was coming on when he finally got rid of his draft and got out. The wintry air pinched his face as he marched alone through the dusk. The sky was clear, turning gunmetal blue and starry and promising frost for the morning. Every few hundred yards he passed camouflaged artillery batteries that made the ground throb when they fired, and in the ditches between them were little groups of artillerymen living in ramshackle shelters, the smell of their evening brew wafting out on the still air.

  Siege Farm loomed out of the dying light. Two big barns and half a farmhouse. A shell had demolished the other half and the remains had been picked clean for firewood. Even the farmyard gate had been pinched, though when Stephen reached the gateway he found a man sitting against the pillar, handcuffed to one of the hinge-pins. Despite the indignity, he had managed to make himself comfortable, with a folded gas cape to sit on and a mug of tea in his free hand.

  ‘Good evening to you, sir.’ He nodded, hastily setting down the mug and rattling his cuffs. ‘You’ll excuse me if I don’t salute.’

  It took Stephen a moment to realize that this was field punish-ment number one in its humane form. The prisoner shall be attached to a fixed object for two hours per day . . . At Etaples it had been applied more rigorously, with the offenders spread-eagled across cartwheels or gun limbers for two hours at a time. The punishment was intended to humiliate rather than inflict pain, but here he detected only mild embarrassment. Still, he decided not to mention it.

  ‘Is this C Company of the Second Dublins?’ he asked, though he’d already noted the man’s Irish accent, and he couldn’t help thinking there was something familiar about his face.

  ‘It is indeed, sir.’ The prisoner jerked his free thumb over his shoulder, ‘You’ll find Captain Wilson around the back.’

  Stephen thanked him and walked into the yard. He smelled the warm waft of fresh straw from the open barns and suddenly felt very sleepy. What he wouldn’t give to curl up in there for a few hours. He hadn’t slept more than three hours on the train, with endless stops in the middle of nowhere and so many changes in unlit sidings that he spent half the journey craning his head out of the window to make sure they were still travelling north. Nor had he had time to shave, and his only sustenance was the stale bread roll he had bought at Amiens.

  There was an armchair set out beside the back door of the farm. Beside it stood a gramophone on an upturned crate, and beside that a coat-stand that leaned drunkenly against the wall because one of its legs was missing. An officer with captain’s crowns sat in the armchair. He appeared to be reading, but was slouched so low with his head bent over his book that he could as easily have been asleep. He did not stir at Stephen’s approach.

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir.’

  ‘Aye.’ The single syllable was drawled without looking up, but Stephen sprang into his salute in any case.

  ‘Lieutenant Ryan, reporting for duty, sir.’

  ‘Is that a fact?’

  The officer turned a page and twisted the book to try and catch some of the yellow lantern light that spilled out of the window above his head. He still had not looked up. Stephen studied him carefully as he waited, standing stiffly to attention. The most conspicuous thing was the purple and white ribbon of the Military Cross on his left breast. Apart from that, it was hard to make anything out. His face was half hidden under the brim of his cap, but he appeared older than Stephen, perhaps forty or so. He was very slight, with bony hands and long fingers, and what hair he could see was jet black. Was that an Ulster accent? It was hard to tell.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Do you like poetry, lieutenant?’

  Definitely an Ulster accent. But he still hadn’t looked up. He was poring over the page intently.

  ‘Poetry, sir?’ Stephen gingerly brought down his saluting hand. ‘A little. I can’t say I know much about it. Mathematics is more my line.’

  ‘Mathematics?’ At last, he looked up from the book and Stephen found himself fixed by a pair of lively brown eyes set deep in a sallow face and shaded by bushy black eyebrows. He stiffened automatically as they looked him up and down attentively. ‘Sure wouldn’t some people say that’s just poetry with numbers?’

  A good analogy, he had to admit. Stephen warmed to him. ‘Yes, sir, I suppose it is.’

  ‘Well, you’re very welcome, lieutenant. Mervyn Wilson, at your service.’ He extended a bony hand that felt like a bundle of wires, then turned and roared into the empty doorway, ‘Corporal Power! A chair for Lieutenant Ryan!’

  A wizened little man with a leathery face and iron-grey hair slicked to his skull came silently out of the doorway carrying a kitchen chair and, without a word or a look at either of them, placed it behind Stephen. He was on his way back inside when Wilson stopped him with an upraised finger.

  ‘A pot of tea and a sandwich for the lieutenant, please, corporal, and you may pack up when you’re done.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ Power murmured, bowed and vanished back inside.

  ‘The company’s gone to the divisional baths,’ Wilson said, producing a pipe and stuffing it from a leather pouch. ‘But they’ll be back in a wee while. We’re going back up to the line tonight, so you should make the best of your sandwich.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Stephen said, and sat down uncertainly.

  ‘Your accent tells me you’re from Dublin, Mr Ryan. Am I right?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Born and bred.’

  ‘Indeed? Were you there for the rebellion?’

  Well, that was blunt. He had his cap half off his head and tried to marshal his thoughts as he set it in his lap. Dangerous waters. He wondered how much Wilson already knew.

  ‘Yes, sir, I was there.’

  ‘What did you make of it?’

  ‘I think it was a mistake, sir.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Wilson nodded and carefully lit his pipe, puffing contentedly for a few moments.

  ‘I want to say, sir—’ Stephen began, but Wilson held up his hand.
/>   ‘Say no more, lieutenant. Politics and religion are the surest ways to a disagreement around here, and I’ll not have them bandied around. Our fight is with the Germans, not each other, and I advise you to keep it that way or we’ll end up with anarchy on our hands. Is that clear, lieutenant?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You said mathematics is more your line. Did you study it in Dublin?’

  ‘I did, sir. At Trinity College.’

  ‘Trinity?’ Wilson nodded slowly, as if this fact was significant, but then his face brightened and he held up the book he had been reading. ‘I like poetry myself. It’s a passion I share with my wife. She sends me books from time to time, to try and alleviate the horror, as she says. This one is by a chap called Hopkins. Have you ever read anything by Hopkins, Mr Ryan?’

  ‘The poet Hopkins, sir? I believe I did. Something about a bird, as I recall.’

  ‘Ah yes, “The Windhover”.’ Wilson nodded and smiled, as if the name alone was enough to conjure up the fondest recollection. Stephen thought it safe to offer up the only other thing he knew about the poet Hopkins.

  ‘I believe he was a Jesuit, sir. Hopkins, I mean, not the bird. It wasn’t a metaphorical bird.’

  Wilson’s smile faded and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Even if he wouldn’t talk about religion, it was clear enough where he stood.

  ‘Aye, he was that,’ he said, and Stephen was relieved to see Corporal Power wafting smoothly out of the kitchen, carrying an empty ammunition crate with two mugs of tea and a plate of bacon sandwiches cut in triangles. He set it down between them.

  ‘We have no sugar, just at present, sir.’ He spoke studiously to the air between Stephen and Wilson. ‘But the milk is fresh this morning and I have put up the rest of the bacon to bring with us.’

  ‘Very good, corporal. You may pack up the gramophone as well when you finish in the kitchen.’

  Power vanished back inside and Wilson took one of the triangular sandwiches, holding it up for Stephen’s inspection. It was an immaculate creation of fine white bread and pink bacon, with the crusts neatly trimmed off.

  ‘Power worked at the Savoy Grill before the war, lieutenant. His value is above rubies.’ Popping the tiny sandwich into his mouth he asked, ‘You think we are a little eccentric, lieutenant? Not quite as you had expected?’

  ‘It is not exactly what I am used to, sir.’

  ‘Aye, well, I find it’s best to make use of what little advantages present themselves – there’s no point in going about a thing half-arsed.’

  They sat contentedly for a few moments until there was a rushing sound through the air over their heads, and then the distant crump-crump-crump of shells landing somewhere down the road. Stephen looked in that direction for a few moments, then returned to his tea.

  ‘Counter battery fire,’ Wilson observed. ‘Their artillery shells our artillery. No doubt we’ll return the compliment in a few minutes.’ He gave Stephen a knowing look. ‘Since it doesn’t appear to disturb you much, I dare say you’ve seen action before.’

  ‘Yes, sir, I was at Suvla Bay with the Seventh Battalion.’

  ‘Were you, by God?’ Wilson suddenly became animated, leaning forward with his eyes blazing, ‘You fought against the Turks?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Some people thought they wouldn’t put up much of a fight, but I reckon you know different. Would I be right in that, lieutenant?’

  ‘Yes, sir. They fought like blazes. We lost a lot of men.’

  ‘Aye, aye. I dare say you did. And how come—?’ Wilson broke off and cocked his ear to one side. ‘Here they come.’

  He leapt out of his chair and Stephen stood up beside him, even though he could neither see nor hear anything. But then he heard it – the rhythmic crunch of many feet marching in step. Looking down the road, he saw a dim shape moving along it, and this gradually resolved itself into a tight phalanx of men that wheeled into the yard, bringing the faint smell of soap flakes and DDT. The two officers who stood at the head of the column came over and saluted Wilson. One wore glasses and the other didn’t, but apart from that Stephen thought they might have been twins. Very young, very eager.

  ‘Good evening, gentlemen. All went well I trust,’ Wilson said, returning their salute.

  ‘Yes, sir. All washed and deloused and ready for action,’ said the one with glasses.

  ‘Very good. Allow me to introduce Lieutenant Ryan. He will be taking over Mr Ingram’s platoon. Mr Ryan, Lieutenants Hollis and Gardner.’

  Stephen made a mental note. The one with the glasses was Hollis, the other one Gardner. From the ‘How do you do’ as they shook hands in turn, he gathered that they were both English.

  ‘Is Mr Devereux not with you?’ Wilson asked mildly.

  ‘Devereux?’ Hollis and Gardner both blushed, and Stephen realized he wasn’t far behind them. At first he wondered if he’d heard right. Then, could it really be him?

  ‘Er . . . no, sir.’ Hollis answered at last, ‘I’m afraid we parted company. Mr Devereux gave us to understand that he had some business to attend to at Division and that he would return here directly.’

  ‘Probably hob-nobbing with that bloody infernal uncle of his,’ Wilson growled, rolling his eyes. Stephen was certain of it now, but still he said nothing. Better to see which way the wind was blowing first.

  ‘Well, we cannot afford to wait for him. Let the men have something to eat and be ready to march in . . .’ Wilson looked at his wristwatch by the light from the kitchen window, ‘. . . one hour. Mr Hollis, kindly show Mr Ryan where his platoon is quartered. Mr Gardner, have that villain Kinsella unlocked from the gate and bring him to me.’

  ‘Very good sir!’

  Hollis led him towards the larger of the two barns. He didn’t say anything, but Stephen could feel his eyes on him as they crossed the yard. The options for small talk were limited, and even though he could feel one question burning in his mind, he decided to ask the more conventional one.

  ‘What happened to Ingram, my predecessor?’

  ‘Johnny? Oh, he was shot by one of our lot,’ Hollis answered cheerfully. ‘It was dreadfully bad luck, really. Ingram was an awfully nice chap. He took a patrol out one night but when the sentries changed they weren’t told we had men out. One of them saw something moving and, well, that was that. Got him through both legs. Still, it’s for the best if you ask me. He had a wife and a little girl, so he’s better off out of it. He’s back in Blighty now, and he probably won’t have much of a limp.’

  ‘And what about Lieutenant Devereux?’ he asked diffidently, ‘I used to know a Devereux, back in Dublin.’

  ‘Oh really? Our Devereux’s from Dublin. Stocky chap? Rugger player? Engaged to a girl, oh, what’s her name . . . ?’

  ‘Mary?’

  ‘Yes, that’s him. Is he a friend of yours?’

  Stephen smiled to himself. ‘I wouldn’t say that.’

  ‘Well, that’s probably just as well, because the boss hates him.’

  Here we go again.

  It was the same, only different. The same slightly nauseous feeling – what he had thought was seasickness before. Butterflies in the stomach, cold feet, a nervous tension that heightened the senses. The same look in the men’s faces. They feel it too. But everything else was different. No sun helmets or shorts here. It was cold, and their breath clouded the air above them as they formed up in the farmyard. He saw woollen caps, scarves and sheepskin jerkins. They were used to this. They’d lived this life for months – years, some of them. But they still got that feeling.

  ‘All present and correct, sir,’ Sergeant Curtis informed him, saluting nervously in the light of the storm lanterns. He was a young man, and seemed so uncertain of himself that Stephen wondered if he was new to the job.

  ‘Very good, sergeant.’ He picked up one of the lanterns and made the rounds of his platoon. They looked lived-in, worn – downright shabby in places – but he was perfectly satisfied. No blanco, no brass, and God kn
ew what he would find if he looked in their haversacks – but they were ready to fight.

  He stopped in front of Kinsella, the man who had been chained to the gate when he arrived. Of all of them, he looked the least nervous. If anything, there was a savage glint in his eye. Gardner had warned Stephen about him when he went back to the farmhouse kitchen to sort out his kit.

  ‘That Kinsella is an awkward bugger,’ he’d said. ‘You’d do well to keep your eye on him.’

  Stephen looked him over carefully. An awkward bugger, yes – but there was something about him that he couldn’t put his finger on. He had a muscular frame, a thick neck and dark, heavy features. Nothing remarkable about his face except that it was maddeningly familiar. The other details were more telling. There were the ribbons of the Military Medal and the Distinguished Conduct Medal on his left breast, and three wound stripes on his cuff. His sleeve showed the double chevrons of a corporal, but above them a lighter patch where the third chevron had been.

  He’d been degraded fairly recently. No wonder Curtis was so nervous, standing in his shoes.

  ‘What are you under punishment for, corporal?’ he asked.

  ‘Drunkenness, sir,’ Kinsella admitted, without a hint of resentment. No doubt when he got drunk, he did it in style.

  Stephen just nodded. No point in moralizing – it wouldn’t get him anywhere. He had seen men like Kinsella before: nothing but trouble when they were out of the line, but hard as nails at the front. The sort you hoped you never ran into on the other side. The sort who went out on patrol at night and came back with ears.