The Opened Cage

by S. C. Howe

  ‘Monsieur Briggs helped me from the road,’ Victoria explained.

  The man looked at Briggs carefully and then gave a broad smile. ‘You sit down and you eat with us,’ he said in good English. With that, he opened a bottle of wine and poured three glasses: one for his wife, one for himself and one for Briggs. ‘None for my daughter,’ he said. ‘She’s too silly already.’

  Victoria rolled her eyes.

  The afternoon drew on into evening, the sun dipped, and a grey wind got up, but it felt safe and warm inside the kitchen as the fire crackled and flared and lit oil lamps flickered yellow and gold. Madame Rousse shut the windows and filled the plates with cake, croissants, rolls and fruit. Then she sat in a rocking chair and watched them, smiling and patient, as the ruby red from the wine caught in the flames and threw dancing shadows over the walls. Time seemed suspended and irrelevant, until the clock striking nine o’clock made Briggs look up. For nearly an hour, Monsieur Rousse had been telling Briggs about the time before the war, when he had been a young man. His English was fluent. ‘But,’ he said, helplessly, ‘we are no longer young, none of us.’ And Briggs knew exactly what he meant.

  ‘I really have to return to billets,’ Briggs said as the talk lulled.

  Victoria got up.

  ‘You must come again, young man’ said Monsieur Rousse. ‘It is nice to talk to the young.’ Madame Rousse nodded. ‘And it is nice to talk to a man, being surrounded all day by these silly women,’ he added, tweaking Victoria’s nose who pulled a playful face at her father.

  Victoria stood by the door. ‘Thank you for staying,’ she said. ‘I know Father misses my brothers.’

  Briggs had rather hoped for more.

  ‘And I am glad you stopped here,’ she added, smiling. It was as though she had read his thoughts; he felt a frisson of...what?

  ‘May I call again?’

  ‘I do hope so!’

  ‘Tomorrow afternoon?’

  ‘About four o’clock? I have chores until then.’

  ‘At four then. Here?’

  ‘Mais oui!’

  They stood awkwardly, half holding out their hands. Briggs caught hold of hers and patted it, then hurried off into the night.

  Barratt hesitated as he rounded a fire bay in the trench. Fielder was sitting, looking up at Joss who was talking to him. Usually Fielder’s eyes were narrowed, as though squinting against the sun, but now, as he gazed up at Deerman, they were wide open; a startling greenish-brown. Barratt walked on.

  Later that day, he stopped short as he saw the two figures sitting on the fire step with their backs against the parapet wall, Joss’s hand trailing casually over Tom’s shoulder. The arm withdrew quickly as Barratt came into view. They jumped to their feet and saluted.

  ‘I want a word with you, Deerman,’ Barratt said, not slackening his pace. ‘Now.’

  Joss followed him into the small, empty dugout. Barratt sat down at his ramshackle desk, facing the door, and beckoned for Joss to move closer. He did not invite him to sit down.

  ‘I won’t beat about the bush,’ Barratt said, looking up sharply. ‘I’m very concerned about the way you conduct yourself with Fielder. And don’t say anything,’ he warned as Joss opened his mouth. ‘I would have thought, after our previous talk, you might have understood, but I see you need it spelling out.’

  Joss stared at him; his face painfully impassive.

  ‘I have the distinct impression that, despite his efforts to appear otherwise, Fielder is an innocent. And I can see that this is far more than the usual just-out-of-school crushes I’ve seen in the officer class.’

  ‘You’re–’

  ‘What’s Fielder’s background, his full background?’

  ‘He was orphaned in early childhood and bought up by his grandfather who died when Tom was sixteen. After that he had to fend for himself doing farm labouring.’

  Barratt nodded. ‘I thought it was something like that... I can see you’re worldly-wise Deerman. You’ve been around a bit.’

  Joss’s eyes opened wider.

  ‘But Fielder hasn’t,’ Barratt continued. ‘And it’s up to you not to put him into a situation where he – and you – ends up being court-martialled, and sitting with your arm draped around him is downright madness.’

  ‘It’s a friendly gesture, Sir. The other men do it.’

  Barratt gave him a withering look. ‘It’s not the same, and you know that. And if I see any more blatant examples, I will send one of you to another company. You’re together on sufferance from now on.’

  ‘So you’re saying we shouldn’t speak to each other?’

  ‘No, that’s not what I am saying. Be friends, by all means, now you have him hooked.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Some might say you’ve taken advantage, Deerman.’

  ‘I’ve done no such thing.’ Joss’s voice was low, warning.

  ‘It looks like it. And you? With you, it’s rather like staring into a mirror that doesn’t reflect. And all the while, there is Fielder announcing himself to the world. It must have been so easy to take advantage of him.’

  ‘You have n-no right to speak like this.’

  ‘I have every right. I’m your commanding officer, and you are behaving badly.’

  Joss’s face was tight. His hands started shaking; he tried to clasp them to stop it.

  ‘And stand to attention when I am speaking to you. And smarten yourself up. To say you look ramshackle most of the time is no exaggeration. You wear your uniform like bedclothes... In fact, you might try taking a leaf out of Fielder’s book – he’s always well turned out, even in the most trying of circumstances.’

  Joss thought of the care Tom took with his uniform, wiping off bits of blood or gore after a carry. Of how he, Joss, could not see the point and didn’t bother because he knew when they reached the billets he would be deloused, have a long bath and given someone else’s cleaned-up clothes.

  ‘We all know you have important relatives,’ continued Barratt, his tone cutting. ‘But that makes no difference in my Company. You abide by the standards that are set for all.’

  Joss peered at him, a frown forming.

  ‘But your most pressing task,’ Barratt was saying, ‘is not to put Fielder in the firing line with the MPs’.

  ‘I would n-never do that.’

  Barratt arched his eyes enquiringly.

  ‘I’d never do anything to hurt Tom, never t-take advantage.’

  Barratt looked at him more closely. A stammer? He had never noticed that before.

  ‘Never do anything to jep–’

  ‘Expect sprawling all over him in the trench in broad daylight.’

  Joss looked thrown.

  ‘If you don’t want to jeopardise him, I suggest you start using some decorum, Deerman. Start considering his welfare and not just your own.’

  ‘His welfare is the most import–’

  ‘Deerman...’

  Barratt sat back. Deerman had coloured up, had sweat breaking out along his forehead, his mouth was pulled down at the ends making his face oddly pouchy. Barratt leaned forward, rubbed his forehead with his finger and thumb. He had handled this badly, but he was oddly relieved at Deerman’s naked hurt. It answered several unspoken questions. He looked down, started fiddling uselessly with the lid of his fountain pen. Deerman was trying to focus his bleary eyes at a point above Barratt’s head.

  ‘I don’t want either of you being interrogated by the MPs,’ Barratt said more quietly, pointing to the dugout doorway.

  Joss struggled to rearrange his expression, then saluted and walked out. Minutes later, he slouched down by Tom who had looked up open-faced, grinning in anticipation of a greeting. He visibly flinched when he saw Joss’s grey, sullen look, a look he had never seen, never even suspected.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  Joss sat miserably against the sandbags. ‘I’ve just been given the third degree by Barratt about taking advantage of you and putting you in jeopardy.’
r />   ‘What?’

  Joss turned to him. ‘Do you feel I’ve taken advantage of you?’

  ‘Of course I don’t!’ Tom looked at him incredulously. ‘And if you remember, it was me who pounced on you. I know it was a bit like being groped by an ape, but I meant it.’

  Joss smiled, in spite of himself, unfolded his arms. ‘I was relieved when you did that,’ he admitted. ‘I was trying to work out ways to introduce that angle and–’

  ‘So, I don’t know what rubbish you’ve been listening to. But it’s just that – rubbish.’

  ‘Barratt did point out I have to be more circumspect.’

  ‘We.’

  ‘All right “we”.’

  ‘And that’s what we’ll have to do. Be more careful. The world’s not ready for us, Joss. It may never be.’

  It was raining hard the next morning. On the margins of the fields the tips of daffodils and aconites showed, bright yellow, deep orange and cream. The soldiers in the billets made a point of walking over to them, to look at them, and a few described them in their letters home to sweethearts. It gave them hope; hope for a future they still believed could materialise. That day orders came through for them to cut scrub. No-one knew exactly why, or for what purpose. As they worked, handsaws slipped off the wet, twig-like branches but still the tiny buds fell to the ground. By late afternoon, there was a sizeable pile, which was far too wet to burn. Briggs came to inspect and walked around, poking the cut scrub with a stick, not knowing exactly what to say. Standing upright at last, hands behind his back, he congratulated them on their work in a clear, unbroken voice and walked away, straight-backed.

  When he was out of sight, several men started up, ‘We’re here because we’re here, because we’re here! We’re here because we’re there, because we’re there.’

  Joss nodded over to Aconite Corner as the others wandered off back to billets.

  Pulling out a bar of chocolate, he handed it to Tom.

  ‘Rations from Blighty,’ he said, shovelling several pieces of another bar into his mouth. ‘This idea of getting leave together,’ he said. ‘Let’s see if we can.’

  Just then, Miller came running over, his rodent-like face aquiver. ‘You’ve got to come and see this!’ he said triumphantly. ‘Our company against the Hampshires. They’ll kick the shit out of them!’

  ‘Oh, the rugby match,’ Joss said disinterestedly.

  As Miller ran off, Joss caught hold of Tom’s upper arm, wanting to tell him he’d much rather stay here, have time together, but Miller was turning round, gesturing them over, almost jumping up and down with excitement. They followed reluctantly. There was no privacy here: the barns were seething with variously recumbent men and the fields with those who wanted to read, write home or talk in groups. It wasn’t a large farm and their company had invaded it like a swarm. The officers had been billeted in the near-derelict farmhouse, while the ranks were in the barns, the former granary and dairy. A company of Hampshires were billeted nearby, and the commanding officers had thought a friendly game of rugby would help morale. The men had other ideas.

  Both teams were limbering up when they joined the makeshift touchline. Some had taken off their tunics and were flexing muscles, arms and backs. Joss looked at Tom and smirked. The Hampshires stood on the other side of the patch of grass, the pitch, glaring at the Worcesters, several of whom were suggesting certain members of the opposition were stupendously effeminate, whilst the Hampshires scratched their armpits, and whooped and gibbered like apes. The officers from both companies were conversing in a group, their backs to the pitch. When Briggs turned round, he found his men staring intently at the Hampshires, who, on seeing an officer, pretended to tighten their bootlaces and limber up.

  Both teams were assembled. Joss watched as Barratt strode up and down his team, rallying them and parting with the words, ‘Remember, give them hell chaps!’

  The whistle shrieked. The two sides ploughed towards each other and locked in a tackle like a huge, gyrating tortoise, seething back and forth, legs and arms pounding the opponents. The audience roared and cheered, and flung anything at hand at the rival spectators. The officers looked at each other, too massively surprised for a moment to do anything. Then one or two started to confer. The referee was blowing hard on a whistle. Everyone ignored him. When at last the mass broke, a man streaked up the pitch for a try, followed by a furious stream that thundered behind, bellowing insults and encouragement. The man was tripped and he fell sprawling and ungainly like a shot bird in the mud. The whistle blasted again, strident. No-one stopped. The spectators pressed in from the sides. At that moment, another figure broke free with the ball from the mass on the pitch. The onlookers clapped until the runner disappeared suddenly under the mob. A man from the opposition then broke free and ran for another try. He succeeded. Then another. As the fourth try went up on their side, the tension snapped. Groups of men jostled the referee, turned back and thumped each other. Barratt stood on a chair and shouted. An apple bounced rudely off his head. Then the spectators rushed onto the field and started fighting with the nearest opponent at hand.

  Briggs was standing at one end, trying to shout his men into order but it was impossible. They were falling on each other with glinting eyes. Barratt blew his whistle. The officers grouped around him.

  ‘This is outrageous! We have to stop this!’ he bawled, seeing Joss hobbling off the pitch, supported by Tom until suddenly they disappeared under the whirling crowd, which roared off again.

  Joss lay dazed for a moment as Tom sat by him, rubbing the back of his head. The next thing they knew another swarm had landed. They groped for each other in the dark, secretive cave, hung onto sleeve and tunic as the men battled. They edged their way out and were just getting to their feet when a passing warrior thumped Tom under the chin and he shot backwards, and lay supine for several moments. Then he looked up at Joss and started laughing. Joss helped him to his feet, mouthed ‘Shut up!’ as they staggered off the field; Tom was still spluttering with laughter and was unreachable. Joss looked around quickly, whispered something to Tom, and they slunk off into the nearby woodland.

  Several Worcesters held up the split trousers of a Hampshire who ran, shirt tails flying, down the field. Barratt held his head in his hands and walked away. The captain from the Hampshires joined him. Briggs followed, then tripped over a stone, and lay dazed for a moment on the ground. Barratt pulled him up irritably and pushed him towards the officer’s quarters.

  The match ended with the crack of rifles shot into the air above the officer’s mess.

  ‘You’re a disgrace!’ Barratt bawled as he walked up and down the line of men from his company.’ An absolute bloody disgrace. You’re all confined to billets with no privileges. All of you!’

  The lines of bruised men looked weary and contrite.

  ‘And I expect six men to report to my office immediately. I want a deputation to express our apologies to Captain Moore of the Hampshires. Fielder, you organise the group.’

  Tom stood back, his expression surprised. The pain from his chin was throbbing wildly.

  ‘I can’t believe you behaved like this,’ Barratt protested. ‘You had time away from the front and this is how you use it!’

  There was a stifled, agonised laugh.

  ‘And who was that?’

  A red-faced private stepped forward.

  ‘And what do you find so funny, Private Milchip?’

  ‘Nothing, Sir.’ The youth did not dare meet Barratt’s eye.

  ‘Do you normally titter like a schoolgirl for no reason, Private Milchip?’

  ‘No, Sir.’

  ‘Fatigues for you for the next six days. Report to Sergeant Fletcher.’

  ‘Yes Sir. Sorry, Sir.’

  ‘Dismissed, the lot of you,’ barked Barratt in disgust. The men stared anxiously after him as he strode away.

  ‘I suppose that’s our chance of leave together buggered,’ observed Tom.

  Later Barratt motioned over to Jos
s as he sat in the makeshift mess.

  ‘So, we’ve gone native then, have we Deerman?’ Barratt asked, not giving Joss leave to sit.

  ‘Pardon Sir?’ Joss’s eyes drifted over to him from eyes-front.

  ‘I thought I might have relied on you, Deerman, but clearly I was mistaken.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘I would have expected you to have done more to quell the riot on the field, rather than merely slinking off with your chum into the woods.’ The sarcasm was cutting.

  ‘I was trying to help Fielder. Someone hit him under the chin.’

  Barratt sat back. ‘Don’t mess around with me Deerman. We both know your background and that your uncle’s a brigadier’.

  ‘I’m a private.’

  ‘So you really don’t feel part of the officer class?’

  ‘No. I’m a private.’

  ‘Don’t be obtuse.’

  Joss looked at him coldly. ‘As you said before, Sir, I made my choice about rank and I have to abide by it.’

  ‘I used to think you had something Deerman, considering your gesture and your family background, but now I wonder if you’re nothing but another Bolshevik.’

  ‘It’s not a gesture,’ Joss said, looking at him directly now. ‘It’s what I believe.’

  ‘Which is what, exactly?’

  ‘Well, it’s nothing to do with rank.’

  Barratt’s expression pinched. ‘Oh just go away Deerman. Clear off.’

  Along the top of the nearby ridge, Briggs walked with Victoria. She had taken his arm and he had looked at her with deep affection. She laughed aloud at his account of the game.