What joy and relief was to be heard upon the appearance of a horse-drawn Lyons delivery van, which marked the halfway point, awaiting them with sandwiches and tea. Here, a great clatter arose as rifles and packs were cast aside, their owners falling gratefully to the verge where they were to lounge for an all-too-brief period of rest before it was up and onwards again.
Stoically shouldering his heavy pack and equipment, young Postgate shouted orders for his men to move, his words of encouragement rousing them to further heights, though before very long he was to find himself the possessor of three extra rifles as their owners again began to flag and had to be physically supported.
There was no need of such assistance for Unthank who, through sheer obstinacy, strode on, though under the weight of his kit his grim face was like a tomato and his nose dripped sweat.
Miles were pounded.
Amongst the steaming, struggling pack, Rawmarsh tripped and fell. Immediately a corporal was upon him yelling at him to get up, taunting him. ‘I thought you miners were supposed to be hard? You’re nothing but a bunch of fucking wasters, the lot of you!’
Taking exception to this, Unthank broke away from the bunch, an expression of dark intent upon his face. Recognizing that there was going to be violence, for Unthank was fast making a name for himself in this area, Louis Postgate yelled at him, ‘Give me a hand here, Unthank!’ and bent swiftly to issue words of motivation to Rawmarsh, trying to pull him to his feet.
Diverted, Unthank went to the officer’s aid, tucking a hand beneath the straggler’s left armpit, and between the two of them they managed to get Rawmarsh up and moving again.
Thenceforth, Unthank urged his exhausted sidekick onwards under a tide of expletives, motivated not by comradeship but by the knowledge that one man’s failure would prevent everyone else from going to the front. ‘Come on, you weak twat, I’m not having him saying that about us colliers. If I get shown up because of thee I’ll rip your fooking throat out.’
Somewhat shocked, Louis felt that, as leader, he should remonstrate with Unthank despite the intimidation the man induced in him. ‘I say, there’s no call for such language.’
His arm ostensibly still supporting the other, Unthank panted a grim reply. ‘Nay, he knows I don’t mean it seriously, dunt thee, lad?’
An exhausted Rawmarsh was none too sure of this; he did not like Unthank, but under the other’s threateningly tight grip he was forced to summon a good-natured response.
Louis smiled too, though in a somewhat confused manner. Whatever its intention the remark seemed to have given Rawmarsh new energy, enabling him to move under his own steam and allowing the officer to direct his own more courteous brand of encouragement at others who were floundering. ‘Well done! Keep it up. Nearly there.’
Up ahead, his sibling Guy was issuing similar valiant command, though his urging of the men was born more from a desire to reach the finishing post before his brother than out of a genuine regard for their wellbeing.
An equally competitive Faljambe remained consistently at the front of the pack, whilst Reynard was now miles in the rear, though trying gamely to keep up, too out of breath to pant encouragement to those in his charge, many of whom were dropping further and further behind.
In fact, hours later, when the battalion reached an exhausted terminus and re-formed on the parade ground it was much under strength.
Though not taking part in the route march, from the vantage point of a commandeered wagon Probyn had tried to keep a steely eye on everyone who had, but one officer seemed to have evaded him. ‘Has anyone seen Mr Gaylard?’
‘Over here, sir!’ An exhausted hand performed a limp but cheerful wave.
Probyn looked and sounded impressed. ‘My, my! Your navigational skills are improving a treat, Mr Gaylard! I was anticipating having to come and collect you from Basingstoke – congratulations.’
Overlooking the gibe, the recipient smiled his gratitude. ‘Thank you, sir!’
Those who had stayed the distance were to receive similar praise, whilst those who trudged in late received little except a lecture and the promise of being driven harder next time.
With all finally accounted for, the officers and men were dismissed, first to attend their throbbing feet, then to lay upon their beds, wriggling their toes, enjoying copious amounts of tea and filled with pride at having completed their most strenuous test to date.
For Probyn there was to be discussion of the performance with his CSMs, jotting down certain names for promotion. In particular, Unthank had been singled out for the way he had rallied those around him, albeit in crude manner. There was the risk that, armed with a stripe, Unthank could become a bully but Probyn hoped a sense of responsibility would prevail. Such a ruse had worked before.
However, he turned to a waiting sergeant shortly afterwards to be informed that Unthank had turned down the offer.
‘Blow me! Even when I try to do him a favour I can’t win. Bring him here.’ Probyn made ready to apply pressure.
‘I’m told you’ve refused promotion, Unthank.’ There was a mixture of disbelief and threat in the RSM’s tone.
Spent from his ordeal, Unthank took a while to come to attention and tiredly reiterated the statement he had made to his platoon sergeant. ‘What’s the point? It’d only be for a few months. The war’ll probably be over before they send for us.’
‘I think you’re wrong there and I’d like you to reconsider.’
‘No, sir.’
Probyn remained calm. ‘Nobody’s forcing you, but I’d urge you not to be too hasty in throwing away the chance of helping your comrades. Unless, of course, you’re afraid of responsibility?’
It was the wrong sort of bait. ‘I’m not freetened. I’d just rather stay as I am.’
‘You’re intent on refusal?’
Unthank remained aloof. ‘It’s my right to do so, sir.’
God preserve us from union men, thought Probyn, casting his mind back to his own youthful eagerness to attain his first stripe and feeling a deep sense of insult over this bogus soldier’s rejection. Knowing that no amount of cajolery would shift the man, he let the matter lie with a, ‘So be it,’ silently damning Unthank for his intransigence, but not allowing the other to see that it annoyed him.
There was something else that had annoyed him too. His ire not confined to the lower ranks, he sought out Louis Postgate, initially to praise him. ‘Congratulations for staying the course, Mr Postgate.’ Jumping from his cot, a spontaneous grin permeated Louis’s tired expression. ‘Why thank you, sir!’
‘I couldn’t help noticing, however, that on more than one occasion Private Unthank omitted to pay you the courtesy of a title.’
Weary but proud of his achievement, Louis shrugged this off with a diffident smile. ‘Oh, I don’t think it was intentional, he just forgot.’
Probyn lowered his voice but spoke firmly. ‘You must not allow him to forget, Mr Postgate, nor must you make excuses. You are an officer. A man such as Unthank is liable to take advantage if he thinks he can get away with it.’ Upon this advice, he strode away, unmoved by Louis’s deflated expression, for it would do this well-bred youth no favours to be soft on offenders.
Yet in the main, Probyn had noted that some form of camaraderie had sprung up between officers and men during that torturous march, and for that he must be heartened.
* * *
That route march was not to be their last, superseded by even longer ones and interspersed with competitions in entrenchment, barrack-room cleanliness and battalion drill. February saw them tramping yet again the well-trod path to the Long Valley, across low sand holes covered in heather, to spend the day on a barren plain undergoing bayonet training. Observing the two lines of men – nay, boys, thought Probyn – descend on each other to practise their moves, some of them grinning cheerfully as they jabbed and thrust in mock combat, treating it as a jolly jape, their RSM imagined the scene when they were required to stick the blade into a real human being, vividly r
ecalling his feeling of horror at his own first kill before quickly banishing it from his mind.
A trail of sand marked the battalion’s return to barracks, trickling from pockets and seams to be ground into the floorboards by milling boots. Yet today’s fatigue was soon to be displaced by great exultation, for there were khaki uniforms awaiting all, inspiring boyish excitement in the young officers’ quarters as the Postgate brothers and their ilk transformed themselves to authentic soldiers, some rashly regarding the provision of khaki as a sign that they were a step closer to the war.
Probyn quashed the assumption, eyeing them up and down. ‘Very dapper, gentlemen, but before you go haring off, you might find you need more than uniforms.’
Guy Postgate was quick to grasp the RSM’s meaning. ‘Ah yes, a rifle apiece would come in slightly handy.’ There being not enough weapons to go round, thus far, companies had been forced to do musketry in shifts. Moreover, with virtually no ammunition it was impossible to complete the course, and the men had learned little more than the theory of how to handle their arms.
‘When do you think we’re likely to get them, sir?’ came an eager enquiry.
Probyn maintained the air of a schoolmaster towards his pupils. ‘I do not know, Mr Sillar, I am not equipped with a crystal ball, but I think it rather unwise to go to the front until suitably armed so you’ll just have to hold your wisht like the rest of us.’
Not as adept as their RSM at being patient, the would-be warriors were dismayed to find that the following weeks held only more training. Yet the fact that the route marches were growing longer did show promise, and when at the end of February such a gruelling hike took them to the Folkestone area, which was near the coast, Probyn was hard-pressed to dispel the excited rumours. Alas for the battalion, housed in workhouse, school and private dwelling, it was still drill and yet more drill, musketry, manoeuvres and field days, battalion training in the park, another inspection by another general. Notwithstanding the amount of concerts and entertainment provided, this was not the type of theatre for which their hearts yearned.
At least the weather was gradually improving, May bursting into bud under glorious sunshine, the soldiers finding nightpost operations no longer a chore but a joy to be out under the stars. More young officers joined, were lectured and drilled by Major Lewis, teased by those who had been here for months now and who considered themselves seasoned leaders, until the new batch too became versed in map-reading and signalling, and as eager as their fellows to get to France.
Despite all the RSM’s efforts to contain the notion that a move to the front was imminent, the men’s optimism continued to burgeon, for now came mass inoculation – surely a sign that foreign lands beckoned – and the same rush to avoid it that Probyn had been forced to dissuade over his long career. Moreover, each week the battalion, as part of the 70th Brigade, now combined with the whole 23rd Division for manoeuvres and field days. Hence, the words of hope gained new veracity with every utterance: surely, the time was close.
Eventually, Battalion Orders informed them that a move was indeed afoot, though they were none too pleased to discover that it was only to Maidstone, where the troops would gain experience in digging. Thenceforth, working parties entrained every day for Otford, where they were to labour on the defences of London under civilian supervision.
Unthank and his skilled fellow miners took great umbrage at being taught to suck eggs. Yet this was nothing compared to the rage they felt upon their defence being afterwards inspected by Lord Kitchener and informed by the said gentleman that, ‘It would not keep out the Salvation Army!’
Having got to know the men inside out between the months of September and May, it came as no shock to Probyn when he heard that Tom Unthank was in serious trouble yet again.
He heaved a sigh, preparing to convey this news to the CO. ‘What for this time?’
‘For calling Lord Kitchener an ignorant fucking arsehole, sir,’ replied the sergeant without the trace of a smirk.
Probyn bristled, but withheld comment, merely turning on his heel and heading for the CO’s office where he delivered the news in couched terms.
Colonel Addison matched his RSM’s displeasure. ‘I sincerely hope that man’s going to be as big a nuisance to the Germans as he is to us!’
‘My sentiments exactly, sir,’ agreed Probyn, and underwent a moment of empathy with the colonel who, formerly of the 2nd Irish Rifles, must find it equally difficult to feel any kinship with this hybrid crew. ‘Perhaps once he’s in France his attitude will improve.’
He was about to leave when the colonel spoke again. ‘By the way, Mr Kilmaster, any news of an arrival yet?’
His mind focused on all things military, it took a second for Probyn to realize that his superior referred to the coming addition to the Kilmaster household. ‘Oh, not yet, sir! Any day now, though.’
‘It’s most regrettable that we won’t be able to spare you. I trust your wife understands that you’re just too valuable to us – as you must be to her, of course, but…’
‘Oh, that’s quite all right, sir.’ Even after two decades in the army Probyn could still be gratified by such a compliment, and by the thought of his own indispensability. ‘Grace will cope admirably, she’s had years of experience in being a soldier’s wife.’ But just for that instant he felt a twinge of homesickness and longed to see her dear little face, wondering what the rest of his loved ones were doing now.
3
In South Yorkshire, a hint of May had begun to creep through the dark thorny hedgerows, sunlight reflected in the celandines that lined the banks of the River Don. The dried tufts of brown between the limestone crags had yielded to a brilliant green. Yet despite the optimistic flush of verdancy, a collection of slag heaps and winding gear, a network of railway lines, the smoke that belched from countless chimneys, a powder works, a glass factory and rows of grimy cottages marked this as a place of monotonous industry.
Denaby Main would grace no artist’s canvas. With neither a village green nor a duck pond its buildings meandered higgledy-piggledy along the main highway. When the mine had been sunk in the nineteenth century, ranks of terraced housing had been erected for the workforce. Over the years, to accommodate the growing population, churches of various denominations had been added, plus a few shops, pubs and a cinema. But the lifeblood of the village was transfused by the Denaby and Cadeby Colliery, whose black pulleys, towers and gantries dominated the valley, as its owners dominated the inhabitants. Almost everything and everyone in the village belonged to the Company.
Inside the miners’ cottages it was possible to pretend one was elsewhere. If one looked from Grace Kilmaster’s bedroom window one could see, framed within the dusty sash, grassy acres sprawling into the distance, thickets of oak and elm. At this moment, however, a heavily pregnant Grace was in the kitchen, preparing bread-and-butter as an accompaniment to the family’s evening meal whilst trying to ignore the signs of imminent birth of her seventh child, who had chosen this inconvenient moment to make its entrance.
It was Friday. To good Catholics that meant no meat and the family was waiting at the tea table for Augusta to return from the fried-fish shop. Through the open window came the sound of a barrel organ; the youngest child swayed in his high chair in response to its gay tune. Normally Grace would be dancing too, but not this evening. Leaning against a work table, buttering bread and trying not to wince as each twinge of pain grew stronger, she hoped the baby would hold on until after its mother had eaten. Her knife flashed across a final slice of loaf. She swivelled her ripe body and extended the plate of bread-and-butter to her eldest son.
‘Here, put this on the table, Clem.’
Retaining his seat, Clement reached out with fingers that were stained with ink from his clerical duties at the pit manager’s office, but in taking acceptance he mishandled the plate and it fell to the floor, decorating the rug with grease. A quick-tempered youth, he uttered a gasp of frustration.
‘Frog’s sake!
’ exclaimed his two-year-old brother, and from his high chair looked down on the mess with a throaty chuckle.
Grace turned on her eldest son with indignation. ‘You’ve been swearing in front of Baby again!’
‘I never said a word!’ Fourteen-year-old Clem jumped from his seat to pick up the bread. ‘Anyway, he only said “frog’s sake”.’
‘We both know the word he’s trying to copy isn’t frog!’ retorted Grace, her anger exacerbated by the discomfort of labour. ‘How many times have I warned you about your pit language in this house?’
Whilst the rest of his siblings hung their heads, hoping to keep out of this, flame-haired Clem did not even bother to maintain his innocence, reminding his mother as he set the plate of fluff-covered bread on the table, ‘You swear.’
Unmasked as a hypocrite, Grace was even angrier. ‘Not the kind of vile stuff as I’ve heard you spout when you think I’m not listening, and you wouldn’t dare behave like this if Father were here!’ With his father absent, Clem had slipped into the role of chief protector but was also apt to try to order his mother about. Normally a gentle soul, Grace was nobody’s doormat. Now, furious at her son’s insolence, she propelled her tormented bulk across the kitchen, grabbed him by the ear and hauled him into the scullery. ‘Well, you might think you’re a man but you’re not too big for your mother to teach you a lesson.’ And clamping her arm around his auburn head she rammed a cake of green naphtha soap into his mouth, leaving him gagging in disgust. ‘Now get back to the table and show some respect!’
‘Thou’ll poison me!’ His hawk-like face contorted, Clem tried to wash away the foul taste with a glass of water, spitting and retching over the sink. Then at a push from his mother he slouched back to the table, thoroughly humiliated at being treated like a juvenile.
A Different Kind of Love Page 4