A Different Kind of Love

by Sheelagh Kelly

  At this same instant a scream arose from another source. Unthank was amongst those injured but it had taken him a moment to discover just how badly. Not only had the shell detached a chunk of his right leg but along with it had taken his masculinity. Deranged by pain he was screaming at those around him to put an end to his misery. Instead, they merely stared at the appalling damage and yelled for a medic to tend his blood-sodden lower half.

  ‘Shoot me!’ gasped Unthank in agony. ‘For pity’s sake, shoot me!’

  ‘I can’t do that, Unthank!’ Swiftly, Guy kneeled and applied field dressings to the victim’s hip and groin area, more of an attempt to cover up the emasculation than genuine assistance.

  ‘Shoot me, you cunt!’ Unthank’s face was contorted with hatred and suffering.

  Probyn was about to stride forth but was preceded by a blur of movement. He saw Guy shoved aside as his brother rushed up, levelled his revolver and shot Unthank through the heart.

  Amongst the onlookers, and for the perpetrator too, there was a moment of suspense at the enormity of what Louis had done. Then, he turned to his brother, his eyes, as no one had seen them before, holding a look that dared Guy or anyone else to make accusation. Rising from where he had been so rudely deposited, Guy merely laid a hand on Louis’s back, then quickly shrugged off his daze, reverted to his usual competent self and organized the removal of Unthank’s body along with the rest, and the battalion marched on its way.

  At their destination, brushing off his company commander’s attempts to tranquillize, Louis said that he would like to assume the unenviable task of writing to Unthank’s family. ‘Considering that it was I who killed him.’ So saying he excused himself and rushed away.

  Witnessing this, Probyn quietly followed Louis to his tent, standing for a moment to watch the stooped and traumatized figure before murmuring quietly, ‘And what are you going to tell them, sir?’

  Louis glanced up at the intrusion to his quiet corner, his face a picture of anguish as he made the dull enquiry, ‘How do you tell a mother that you’ve murdered her son?’

  ‘You didn’t murder him, sir. You did the only kind thing.’

  ‘Shot him like the poor inhuman brute that everyone held him to be.’ Louis shook his head in utter despair, his fingers raking through dark locks. A youth who wanted to be a friend to all – it had become a sad obsession that he had never managed to charm Unthank. ‘I never did succeed in getting him to like me.’

  Watching those tortured eyes, Probyn guessed what lay behind them, recalled the moment long ago when he himself had discovered the brute within, had done things he could never have contemplated.

  Louis did not speak for a while, fingering the piece of paper on which he was supposed to be composing a letter. ‘I suppose it sounds crass after what I’ve just done, but I regard this as the worst thing about the whole blessed job, knowing what to say to a man’s mother.’ From past experience he knew she would want to know that her son had died instantaneously.

  But it took the RSM to confirm it. ‘Tell her what she wants to hear, sir,’ came the quiet advice.

  With a shuddering breath, Louis nodded and directed his pencil at the sheet, his voice impassioned. ‘This war, this bloody, fucking wretched war. Will it never be over?’

  Dealing him a look of empathy, the RSM drifted away and went to organize yet another rehearsal for the coming attack.

  * * *

  The constant practice did indeed make perfect, but proud as he was at the achievement of his troops it was all becoming a heavy burden for one of such mature years.

  Taking a welcome rest from the intensive training, Probyn spread his mackintosh in a grassy field and sat down to light a cigarette. Whilst towns and villages along the front were gradually being reduced to ruins, beyond the bloody mayhem haymaking was in progress, the sweet fresh smell of newly mown grass reaching him even through the appalling stench of war, and immediately transporting him to happier times on Aunt Kit’s farm.

  Bees hummed. Whilst he smoked and immersed himself in thoughts of family, others around him played musical chairs, their instruments a comb wrapped with tissue paper, a couple of human bones which the player clickety-clicked using his knees as a percussion board. Relieved that the dreaded training was almost over and expectant of a good result in the real thing, the men were very cheerful, much of this stemming from an eagerness to revenge the many friends who had been killed or wounded during their time at Albert. The order was to kill as many Germans as they could. From his own experience Probyn knew that most would need no prompting.

  A Whitsuntide parade came by. Led towards their battered church by a priest with golden crucifix aloft, the children were dressed in white for confirmation. Just like at home. Probyn imagined the coal carts that had been scrubbed and decorated with ribbons for the day, taking the village boys and girls around the houses, singing hymns. Soon he would be there, God willing. If he did not end as Lord Kitchener, at the bottom of the sea.

  His own departure from France was preceded by the haunting tones of Last Post, the bugler’s rendition not for him but to punctuate the memorial service for the Secretary of State.

  CSM Dungworth was going home shortly too. Having previously discovered that Bert lived in the village next to his, Probyn arranged to meet him for a pint, then went to say goodbye to his young officers and to wish them luck in that for which they had striven so long.

  ‘Well, this is what you’ve been waiting for, gentlemen.’ He shook hands with every one of them. ‘I wish with all my heart I could be part of it.’

  ‘And we too,’ was Louis’s sincere reply. ‘I’m sure my brother would prefer that you were here to take care of me.’ He smiled at Guy.

  ‘You’re quite able to look after yourselves, sir.’ Probyn assured him. ‘I envisage great success.’

  ‘Mr Gaylard, Mr Faljambe, Mr Geake, good luck, sirs.’ Injecting them with a firm look of confidence, he backed away. ‘Well, I’d better go and train a new lot so we can keep up this momentum. Once we’ve got Fritz running we want to make sure he doesn’t stop.’

  After taking leave of the rest, his final parting was reserved for Colonel Addison. ‘All the best, sir. Good luck for the Show and I’ll see you anon.’

  9

  Following an overnight crossing and motor vehicle transport from the coast, Probyn finally arrived in London. The metropolis, though hugely impressive, had always slightly unnerved him, the sheer volume of people on the streets, everyone a stranger, rushing past as if they had not a minute to spare, infecting him with their haste and causing him to increase his own gait. Crossing the wide thoroughfares was almost as big a risk as stepping into no-man’s-land, horses almost totally replaced by motor vehicles that honked and pipped in irritation of him.

  On entering Victoria Station, he stood for a moment to recoup his breath and get his bearings, as always a man apart. His eyes fell on a young attractive woman and followed her as she marched up to a man in civilian clothes. Her mouth set in a bitter line, she thrust a white feather under his nose. Embarrassed, the man tried to turn away but she grabbed his arm and hissed at him. ‘Conchie!’ Others heard and joined the condemnation as their quarry hurried to get away. His face impassive Probyn watched him being harangued for a moment, feeling no sympathy for one party nor the other: with no obvious disablement the man was more than likely a coward, his attackers totally ignorant of what it was like in France.

  Between the milling travellers a notice caught his eye – ‘French money exchanged here for officers and soldiers in uniform’ – and he wove his way through the dead-eyed London crowd and an obstacle course of suitcases and portmanteaux towards the small booth where he swapped his remaining foreign notes for pounds, shillings and pence before seeking out the entrance to the underground.

  Caught up in a torrent of bodies and not entirely sure if he was heading for the right platform, he had no option but to let the current bear him along, propelling him into an already packed carriage,
hopefully the desired one, others shoving through the doors after him, all jostling for a place. Thenceforth he was trapped.

  Not prone to claustrophobia, it was nevertheless a horrible feeling for one accustomed to living in open fields.

  En route for King’s Cross with the feathers of a woman’s hat in his face and someone’s elbow in his ribs, he asked himself testily, were these the people whose lives he had fought to protect at the risk of his own? No one offered to give up their seat, no one said well done or thank you, no one so much as looked at him. Indeed, when a vacancy occurred at the next station and instead of jumping into the seat he offered it to the woman whose hat had been such an annoyance, she edged past him as if he had the plague. Bored with their flag-waving, they now seemed inured to khaki-clad exploits. After twenty years a soldier he was hardly dumbfounded, though he doubted he would ever get used to such fickle treatment.

  Eventually, feeling as if he had already travelled thousands of miles, he found himself on a train to the north, and at last felt able to relax.

  * * *

  After a delightful week amongst his family he returned south to resume training. With most of the men being here under compulsion and therefore not the eager recruits of old, his mind was not wholly on the task this bright Saturday morning, the faces of these raw conscripts transposed with those across the Channel whom he had nurtured and who would this day be battling for possession of the Somme.

  In fact he had been thinking of them ever since he opened his eyes this morning, going through the plan of attack whilst to all intents and purposes shaving. At Zero minus three minutes the artillery would have barraged the front German lines, flushing out game for the snipers. Unthank’s skills would be sorely missed now. At Zero, the two front waves of the assaulting battalions would have advanced to the attack … now the third and fourth waves commence to move out in succession into no-man’s-land. He looked at his watch. At this moment his own battalion would be moving into the position of readiness; he saw them led out by their platoon commanders through the sallyports and into the front-line trenches, saw them individually, with their own quirky way of doing things, saw Bob Gaylard’s fresh face making a worried last-minute inspection of the German trench map, Louis Postgate checking his revolver and his men’s rifles, all of them swallowing nerves – so close had they become that he even felt nervous for them – wanting to drink but not allowed to do so whilst still in their own trenches. But now there would be no time to be windy, for as they watched the fourth wave evacuate the German front-line trenches the first wave of his own boys was up and over the parapet and moving across no-man’s-land, the second file observing as their comrades stormed the German trenches, bombing and shooting and stabbing, carrying out to the letter the instruction to kill as many of the enemy as possible. Then they too would rise over the parapet and proceed to clean up those Huns who had slipped the net. He saw them as in practice, advancing in rushes, hauling their Lewis guns after them, wave after valiant wave, advancing to glory …

  Spotting a wayward marcher, he came out of his fantasy to bark an acid command and, marching alongside, forced himself to concentrate on the matter in hand.

  But it was difficult to focus with so much at stake in France, and again he checked his watch, noting with satisfaction that an hour had passed since last he had looked. If the attack had gone according to plan it would all be over now, the Germans routed, their lines captured, his boys back in their trenches and preparing to march back to billets, exhausted but victorious. He performed a mental roll call, this time thinking not of individuals but wondering how many might have fallen.

  Never could he have imagined the reality …

  * * *

  In France, after a night of heavy bombardment, the dawn had broken fine but misty. Amongst the 2.5 officers and 736 men of the 9th Battalion York and Lancaster Regiment, Louis gathered his own around him, ensuring that each had a perfect vision of the plan. He set about checking that they had every requirement, like a mother whose infants were about to attend their first day at school. In addition to his haversack filled with iron rations and other necessities, each man carried four sandbags attached to his equipment bracing. Some had shovels, some had picks strung across their backs with which to hack steps into the captured parados. Besides their usual ammunition each was armed with two extra bandoleers, plus two Mills bombs.

  ‘Remember, you’re not to throw these indiscriminately, they’re hard to replace.’

  Fortified by a tot of rum, Private Axup quipped, ‘If we don’t use them on Gerry, sir, can we use them for fishing when we get back?’

  ‘Certainly, Bill, so long as you don’t expect me to eat what you catch,’ retorted Louis, whose own experiments in this field had seen the kind of disgusting things stirred up by a bomb thrown into a river.

  ‘We’ll let you treat us to smoked salmon tonight then, sir,’ grinned Rawmarsh.

  ‘You may certainly dream about it, Rawbones,’ Louis threw back, to laughter.

  In Hugh Faljambe’s platoon there was less warm-hearted joshing between men and commander, though with his reckless streak curbed by the things he had seen they trusted Foggy not to expose them to unnecessary risk. Nevertheless, all were apprehensive as the blond-haired lieutenant ordered, ‘Fix bayonets!’

  Each tried to combat nerves in his own way, some retreating into themselves, some, like Pork and Hamm, taking long drags of a shared cigarette and mentally praying it would not be their last, others engaged in idiotic banter, some even managing to laugh and causing others to laugh with them. But then fresh bombardment opened with tremendous violence and it was useless trying to speak, their only recourse to wait with dry mouths whilst the guns disgorged their load and the earth shuddered and heaved and groaned all around as if Hell opened its doors to suck them down.

  At seven thirty all fell quiet, save for the ringing in their ears and the screams of injured beasts. Emerging from their crouch to an illusory snowstorm, the filthy wide-eyed men became even more nervous, waiting for the curtain of smoke of lift. Waiting, waiting …

  And then to a shrill medley of whistles the first wave of infantry rose over the parapet and out into no-man’s-land. Greatly encouraged to find that the German wire was completely cut, they strode resolutely on and within a few minutes of Zero the German first line was captured along the whole brigade front. Eager to consolidate this victory the first wave stormed onwards to the second line, capturing this too and, their blood up, some of the assaulting troops even reached the German third line.

  The 9th York and Lancasters prepared to move up in support. Private Hamm shook hands with Private Porks, their eyes awash with misgiving. ‘Look after yourself, chum.’ But out in the field there was a moment of confusion. The centre brigade of the 23rd Division had now retired and the right battalion of the 70th Brigade, imagining it was also meant to withdraw, fell back to their parapet, taking some other troops over with it. Guy Postgate, Hugh Faljambe and Bob Gaylard suddenly found themselves presented with these extra troops and for a second there was indecision at how to distribute them. Moreover, the enemy was now putting down an intense barrage, high explosive hurtling towards them in every form. Raising his worried pale grey eyes to the sky, Guy was at the ladder preparing to lead his men over the top when he heard the shell scream upon them, but heard no more as it exploded him to pieces, obliterating Bob Gaylard too and every man around him, assaulting those on the outer edges with lumps of steaming flesh.

  The air sucked from his lungs by the blast, Louis fought for breath, staggered to his feet and, spattered by his brother’s blood and that of half the company, cried out – his shriek drowned by Colonel Addison’s whistle as the rest of the battalion rose over the top. What else was he to do but follow suit?

  But even as he made to clamber out, others toppled back into the trench, Pork and Hamm, one on top of the other, both dead. Yelling encouragement to those in his own platoon a wild-eyed Louis drove himself upwards and over the pile of
sandbags.

  The scene ahead was unimaginable, a detritus of mutilated men stretched out across no-man’s-land, becoming ever thicker as one after another was cut down by the vicious sweep of machine-gun bullets that came tumbling in all directions from the German lines, whizzing through the grass like bees, men capsizing all around him, Axup, Rawmarsh, little Corporal Bebby, Sergeant Holroyd, his entire platoon soon lay dead or wounded.

  Instead of the well-practised route there was now only chaos, men of other battalions mixed together, men he had never seen before. With no one left to lead, he cast his wild blue gaze about him, his face speckled with dried blood, searching for a friend. Then, he saw ahead of him Hugh Faljambe’s blond hair curling from under his helmet and fixed his sights on this, taking Hugh’s example, striding determinedly forth through the bloody brain-spattered mire, firing his revolver at an enemy he could barely see – until suddenly Hugh went down as well. Stooping on one knee beside his fallen comrade, his aspect distraught, Louis saw that there was naught to be done. Overwhelmed by a terrible feeling of loneliness, demented by grief and by the unearthly moaning and groaning and shrieking of wounded men begging for his help, spurred only by months of training and a sense of loyalty, he lurched onwards, calling encouragement to terrified strangers, firing wildly with his revolver towards the German line – and then, thank God, oh, thank God, he caught sight of Colonel Addison waving him on and, rushing faithfully to his leader, he jumped into the German trench and started shooting, giving no quarter to those he found there, his only intention to kill …