‘Which station?’
‘Saint Sever.’
‘You can’t be serious. The place would have been a bloody ants’ nest. Troops everywhere.’
‘I took a punt. Paris or bust.’
‘Because you knew a woman there.’
‘No.’
‘Who did you know?’
‘No one. I’d never set foot in the place.’
‘Then why go?’
‘Seemed like somewhere to get lost.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought so. I’d say you’d have stuck out like dog’s balls. French police would have spotted you in no time. Unless you had somewhere to hole out.’
‘I got in with some lads and they shunted me about every time the police showed their faces. They thought it was a laugh.’
‘And this went on for more than two months! What do you take me for, Lambert? You’ve got to give me something better than that!’
‘It’s the truth, Sir.’
‘It’s cock and bull! You’ve got to give me something better! If you can’t convince me, how do you expect to convince the court? What about the name of a street? Give them an address and with any luck your mademoiselle will have had the sense to move on.’
All at once, it doesn’t seem such a bad idea – provided his luck holds and no one informs on him. He must accept that everything is fluid. He has no control. If the soldier talks, so be it. In the meantime he’ll stick with Paris. An address in Paris and a woman’s name. Any name. By the time the civil authorities draw a blank he might be safely convicted and punished with nothing to connect him to Colombe.
‘I don’t know the street, Sir. I’ll try to remember. But it was full of brothels. The woman was called Elise . . . ’
At reveille a Red Cap brings him a mock rifle and a full kit and orders him and two others, all newcomers who’ve been kept in isolation, to jog double time around the perimeter of the parade ground. Soon he’s gasping and wheezing but nonetheless pleased to be out in the open. Each time he swings round the eastern side he’s able to see beyond the entanglements to the transport compound and coal stores, to the serried peaks of the marquees where the coloured labourers sleep, and ultimately to the tin chimneys of his bakery, blackened like cigars yet wafting fluffy white smoke. Despite his exertion, he imagines he can smell the bread – or more precisely the unbaked dough breathing a sour hopeful breath over the camp. He knows this is fanciful, and that probably what he smells is summer dust, pulverised over and over by the boots of prisoners. But he holds on to his delusion, until his spine begins to ache and his knees jolt bone on bone. What have they put in his pack? Lead ingots?
Restored to his hut, he waits for breakfast. But instead of the usual plodding feet of a prisoner he hears the approach of a group of four or five. Police most probably. What is disconcerting, he catches a word or phrase of French. And after the barking English commands he’s just been subjected to on the parade ground, it sounds somehow melodious. An indulgent and forgiving language. Colombe’s.
The feet shuffle outside his hut. The speakers go silent and he observes several pairs of army boots through the ventilation slit. Someone slips open the spy-hole. The sunlight flares, a white point in the door. Then a head blocks it out, and an eye pressed close. He tries to stare back but finds himself embarrassed and unnerved. His glance drops to the ventilation slit, to a pair of clogs and thin white shins. He feels his throat contract. A Frenchman murmurs, a French child whispers in reply. Abruptly they’re gone.
For a long time he stares at the small oblong of light. The worst has come, precisely as feared.
He tries to settle his thoughts, to throw off his sense of defeat. He has to sift the possibilities. If the boy came to identify him, then the police must have Colombe. What of the soldier? Has he recovered sufficiently to speak against them? Assault or attempted murder might be added to the charge sheet. It matters barely at all. There is no fighting back. He doubts that it can be any different for Colombe, though he has seen enough of her to know she won’t fold easily. She will reveal just as much truth as is necessary. A foreigner at her door. A man making threats. Really? For week after week? No, not a man making threats. A man on the brink of collapse. So yes, they’ll have her for misplaced compassion.
When next he sees Foster he informs him of a change in his story. Forget Paris. Forget the woman called Elise. Far from put out, the lieutenant exhibits a wry smile. From this Harry is able to surmise that the charges still relate to desertion, and not attempted murder. He thinks it shouldn’t matter, but he shivers with relief, and feels an impulse to babble, to celebrate a fleeting happiness with this unusually generous officer. The lieutenant remarks that he has had a little chat to the battalion adjutant who will act as prosecutor. He likes the new circumstances. The truth is always a better starting point.
The inquiries are held in an administrative hut enclosed within a separate entanglement. When his turn comes he’s jogged past the punishment post by a pair of Red Caps who wield their sticks with professional detachment. Duckboards lie embedded in the soil and more than once he nearly trips as the timber wobbles underfoot.
‘Lift your fuck’n knees!’ he’s told, and cops a whack across the back.
At the steps he’s permitted to catch his breath before being escorted in. He doesn’t like the look of things. The presiding officers sit behind a single desk, two captains and a major. Purportedly a horse doctor in civilian life, Major Firth conforms with his pet picture of an amateur soldier turned professional: fiftyish, lean, scrupulously groomed, the perfect stickler. He reads the charge from a single sheet: ‘That at Divisional Headquarters, Rouen, at approximately 7:00 p.m. on April 6th, 1918, the accused, after being paraded with his unit and warned to hold himself in readiness to be entrained to the front, absented himself till apprehended on June 12th by Number 28 Examining Post, Rouen . . . ’
When asked to plead Harry looks uncertainly to Foster.
‘In entering a plea,’ the major snaps, ‘the accused must speak for himself.’
‘Guilty, Sir.’
‘You acknowledge that in entering this plea, and in preparing your case, you have been properly and diligently advised by Lieutenant Foster.’
‘I do, Sir.’
‘And you desire to have him speak on your behalf.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Be seated.’
As Foster intimated, the court seems pleased not to have to deal with him directly, military justice being, apparently, an officers-only affair. And for his part Harry, who suddenly doesn’t feel equipped to contribute, is relieved to be able to leave almost everything to the lieutenant. His own role is to look suitably shamed and contrite while Foster paints him as a weak and inept individual, the perennial coward in the ranks. He describes how Private Lambert imposed on an elderly Frenchwoman’s kindness and manipulated her maternal instinct, convincing her that if she was to turn him in he would face a firing squad; how he hid in her house the entire period of his absence, until he aroused the suspicions of neighbours.
Harry’s ears prick. Neighbours? Were there others besides the widow? He finds it difficult to maintain the right expression.
The prosecutor is lenient. He agrees with Lieutenant Foster’s representation of the facts. He concurs that the accused is patently not the right stuff. A sad case, he says. Definitely a sad case.
It’s then that the major thinks fit to ask whether Harry has anything to add. Rising awkwardly, the chair almost toppling behind him, Harry answers ‘No, Sir,’ and remains standing while the major expands on the theme of what a despicable excuse for a man he is. Disgrace to the forces. Disgrace to the British race. Unconscionable cowardice. A danger to his fellows.
Harry can’t see the latter assertion. Perhaps if he’d deserted in the vicinity of the front, but 100 miles behind the lines? ‘I wish to make amends, Sir,
’ he manages to interject.
‘Make amends? Oh yes, you’ll make amends. My word you will!’
thirty-three
I knew him to look at. You saw him on the road, always coughing and drivelling to himself. They called him ‘the General’ because of his smart pants. Sometimes they were old and filthy, sometimes new. Someone must have kept him in trousers. ‘Look,’ Isabelle would say. ‘Here comes the General. Hide your silver.’
I should have taken her at her word. Nineteen hundred francs! Do you know how long it took me to save nineteen hundred francs? He deserved what he got. He was lucky the Australian got him and not me. I’d have knocked his brains out. I wouldn’t have stopped at one. But once a man’s down, you feel sorry. He wheezed and shivered and I felt sorry. No one deserves to die. I wanted him up and gone. We cared for him like a newborn. Not because I expected my money back: because I wanted him gone. I wanted the house empty again.
After two days he started talking, but nonsense. I thought I might be stuck with him for weeks. Then he raised himself and I found him wrapped in a blanket on the back step, coughing and barking and firing his repulsive spit at the birds. He must have gone right past me while I slept. He said something about the hospice of St Maclou. I guessed that was his bolthole. He was looking into my eyes and not seeing. I supposed his brain had been damaged. Even so, I was in a rage. I said, ‘What about my nineteen hundred francs?’ He inclined his head to one side, as if considering. You couldn’t be sure he understood. He was either very stupid or very shrewd. I asked him his name. He stared. To test him I said, ‘What happened to your head?’ His face was empty, or there might have been a smile. When you’re anxious you imagine things. I had to half-drag him back to his bed. He wanted to sit in the fresh air.
I was worried for my Australian. I did not imagine he would give himself up. I thought he would keep running. It had been less than twenty-four hours. I wanted to give him more time. But now that the imbecile was up and moving and threatening trouble, I had to jump.
I went in to Rouen for an ambulance. I said I’d found an injured man in the yard. They wanted to know whether it was urgent. Didn’t trust my judgement. It was three hours before they sent anyone. They couldn’t spare a motorised van, just one medic with a slow horse and a cart like a hearse. He took one look and laughed. He said, ‘How are you, General? A nasty head by the looks of it.’ He was hardly respectful.
He walked him to the cart and laid him inside. I said, ‘Will he be all right?’ Another big laugh: ‘The General? He’s unkillable. A few winters back we found him frozen on the deck of a motor-launch. We thawed and fed him and he walked away.’
So that was my thief – gone at last. I thought: Back to where I began. An empty house. No money, no Australian to worry about. A clean sheet. I couldn’t see the police following it up. Maybe eventually, if the hospital made a report.
But that same afternoon, no, that was too soon. They came searching out the back where I was cutting grass. I knew something was wrong. I turned cold in the hot sunshine. Their first question was, ‘Do you know a foreigner called Lambert?’ I had dreamt of this moment.
I supposed it was the General paying us back. That’s what you get for saving a person’s life. Not till later did I think of Isabelle Bravy. I was ready to fight. But what could I say? That the General had stolen my money? That would have put me in deeper. They’d have said we went after him. I was frantic. My head spun. It was like falling from a height and reaching for thin air. I said I’d never heard of any Lambert. They got particular. A soldier. An Australian. They showed me the butt of a raffle ticket, supposedly with his name on it. I didn’t know what it meant. But they persisted: Could he have stayed just a little while? A night perhaps? You know how they wheedle: starting small, getting bigger. I said, ‘You mean the man I found in the yard?’ No, not him. They didn’t want to know about the General. They wanted the Australian. I’d hidden him, they said. That’s when I blew up. Who said I’d hidden him? Let them say it to my face! Pure bluff. They went on just as before. They had ‘information’. Very mysterious and intimidating. A hundred witnesses for all I knew. They didn’t care about some vagrant getting a bang on the head. They wanted a big case to put in the papers. They wanted me for harbouring. When had the Australian first come? What had he said? How long had he stayed?
I blocked them for fifteen minutes. They went around in circles repeating the same questions: Had I seen him before? Did I invite him? Was I sympathetic? Did he lie? Did he say he was on leave? Perhaps he confused me? When that got them nowhere they became snide. How old was I? How old was he? Their faces were blank but I knew they were sneering. They thought I was disgusting. Where did he sleep? they asked.
I said, ‘Go away. I’ve given my answer.’
But they wouldn’t go. They said, ‘You know he’ll be court martialled? They’ll get it out of him. You think our boys are bad. Those Australians are hyenas. They won’t ask polite questions. Wouldn’t you rather get in first? It will look better on your deposition. A free confession. You’ll save yourself a lot of anguish. You might save him some broken bones. Do you want to see him hurt?’
Oh, I was heroic. I was ridiculous. I kept up a hard face. I said, ‘I don’t know who you’re talking about.’ But I did something weak. I lied about my age – added ten years. I was getting ready to scramble. I cried old woman’s tears. Poor me. If they wanted to punish a confused old woman . . . Is that cowardice?
Lot of good it did me. They took me in to Rouen, then sent me to Paris. The investigator made the police look like schoolboys. He was a slippery eel. So many questions, so many insinuations. Did I speak German? No? Then I’d better learn. Because that was the way it was going. Maybe I liked the Boches. Maybe I was a traitor. No? Then who was going to fight the enemy? Who was going to push him back to where he came from if people like me turned men into cowards? Of course he knew about Joseph. So I’d lost a son. Was I the only one to lose someone? They are trained and prepared. They specialise in needling you. I had no support. I was alone with my thoughts or locked up with strangers, all of them ready to report what I said if they thought it would help them. I complained I was sick. He said, ‘Naturally you’re sick!’ As if the truth was a bad dinner. Bring it up and you’ll feel better.
Before I knew it I was shouting at him, calling him a butcher. I lost my mind. No, not true. He made it so I didn’t care. I gave him exactly what he wanted. I put myself in here. My own words. They didn’t need Isabelle Bravy or anyone. I saw my advocate two days before the trial. I asked who would appear against me. He said, ‘No one. What’s the point? You admit everything don’t you? Why spoil a neat confession?’ I asked what had become of my Australian. No news. Could he find out? No. Military courts are closed. Only family have a right to know.
It’s amazing how you accept as final a clever man’s word, at least while you’re still fighting. He said, ‘Forget him. Hasn’t he done you enough harm?’ And anyway, I had no energy for either remembering or forgetting. I was too busy clambering. It’s a landslide. You never get free of it. Whatever you do or say you end up buried at the bottom. That’s when you start to think again. All at once – silence. You have months and years to see what it means. We have too much time to think. That’s the evil part. Too much time to puzzle. I remember the pain on his face when I told him to go. He thought I was kicking him out. Of course I was kicking him out. What could I do? He was already lost. He was gone. What was the use of trying to console him? You get washed away.
Something the investigator said. It still makes me smile. ‘Are you proud of yourself?’ What a question. He wanted me to feel like a child caught stealing. Well, it’s all stealing isn’t it? I took what didn’t belong to me. I pulled a man out of the stream. I stole a few weeks of his life. They had other plans for him. I had no right to him. He had no right to himself. Isn’t that their reasoning? I wasn’t accused of stealing Joseph,
but it’s the same. They get you one way or another.
thirty-four
Capt. A B Hassett,
Central Army Records Office,
Block A,
Albert Park Barracks,
Melbourne, Victoria,
September 29, 1968
Miss Julia Keely,
Further to our telephone conversation of June 13 concerning the service records of No 42743 Private H G Lambert, 38th Battalion, AIF.
I have discussed your interesting observations about the above serviceman’s records with several colleagues. I have also conducted a second search and found no new documents. Whether Private Lambert was tried before a court martial, as you say your research suggests, this office does not hold a transcript of proceedings, or any record of such a proceeding having taken place. The dossier I forwarded to you on August 27 contained all available records. Your suspicion that some of these records may have been tampered with or fabricated strikes me, and others with whom I’ve discussed the case, as quite unfounded. I grant that it is not unknown for relations of servicemen, and sometimes servicemen themselves, to want to suppress unflattering information, but keep in mind that, in the main, these papers originated in France, and existed in triplicate. Rather than kept together in one office, they would have been dispersed to different places, sometimes continents apart. It is true, as you say, that war records were consolidated at the AIF Base Records Office in the twenties, but this was a secure military institution. Therefore it is unlikely that anyone in Australia, however influential, would have been in a position to corrupt or forge this material. Had Private Lambert gone absent without leave in France his Company Conduct Sheet would certainly say so. You will note that this form covers the period December 7, 1917, to his discharge on March 3, 1919, being the duration of his service in Rouen, and that there are no offences listed. You will also note that his character is described as ‘good’. Finally, the form is certified correct with the signatures of three officers. To my mind, the weight of probability would seem to suggest that your source is mistaken.
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