by Liz Trenow
‘Je suis désolée, I do not think we can help. We saw so many,’ Ginger said. ‘English, French, Canadians, Americans. Was he an officer?’
‘I really don’t know. Probably not.’ How foolish she had been, how absurdly optimistic, to imagine that of the many thousands who came here they might remember one individual soldier.
‘Is there anyone else I could ask?’
‘There were two other places the men went, apart from the bars and whorehouses.’ Ginger’s smile was apologetic. ‘Forgive me, but that was the reality of war.’
‘I’m sure my brother was no angel.’
‘There was the Church Army hut but it is gone, and the people.’
‘And the other place?’
‘Talbot House. The Everyman’s Club they called it, on Rue de l’Hôpital.’ She gestured towards the left. ‘Many went there, all ranks, hundreds of them. But it is closed now.’
‘What was this place?’
‘It was somewhere to relax and meet friends. They could have a meal; they had a library and events, music and so on. And a place to pray.’ Alice found herself hanging on every word, her heart pounding in her chest. This was surely the place Sam wrote about: There are kind-hearted people helping us, and we’ve got good beer and enough food.
‘Is it possible to visit this house?’
Ginger shook her head. ‘The man who ran it, a priest, he’s gone home to England and the owner has taken it back.’
It was so frustrating. This was the closest she’d come to finding Sam – or at least discovering what had happened to him. Gripped with the certainty, without knowing why or how, that this place would hold the clue to Sam’s disappearance, she would not give up now. ‘Can’t I go there anyway? Could you introduce me to this owner?’
‘I’m sorry. There were so many wishing to visit that he had to close the doors.’
‘What was this priest’s name? Maybe I could write to him?’
‘Philip Clayton. But everyone calls him Tubby. Perhaps the army will have his address?’
‘Thank you, mam’selle, for giving me your time,’ Alice said.
‘It was nothing. Good luck, madame.’
*
She saw the sign immediately, on the opposite wall, as she stepped out into the street: Rue de l’Hôpital. It didn’t take long to find the handsome red-brick three-storey town house that, although now dusty and neglected-looking, must surely once have been a grand residence. The shutters and heavy cast-iron gates were firmly closed, but above the doorway still hung the hand-painted sign: Talbot House, 1915 - ? Every-Man’s Club.
She tugged at the bell-pull; it sounded hollowly but no one came to the door. She rang again, more urgently this time. Still no answer. She sighed impatiently. If only she could get inside she might get a sense of Sam’s presence, when he had been here, what he had been doing. After trying a third time and waiting for several minutes more, she turned away, itchy with exasperation. Retracing her steps to the square, she tried to reason with her sense of disappointment: the priest had left, the owner had taken the house back. There was probably nothing left inside anyway; it would have been taken away at the end of the war. Besides, she had no proof that Sam had even visited it. There must be other leads to follow – she would ask Daniel.
She crossed the square to the town hall where Major Wilson had arranged to meet them, and entered the courtyard through the stone gateway. Over lunch the group had begun to get to know each other; a few beers helped to ease their reserve and the conversation had become lighthearted, even jocular. But now they stood in solemn, respectful silence, hanging on to his every word.
‘. . . this building also had a more sombre role.’ He pointed to a barred window in the corner of the courtyard. ‘That is the prison where they held captured deserters, awaiting their fate.’ There was a collective in-drawing of breath. Everyone knew that deserters had been shot, but no one wanted to ask how or where, and he was clearly not going to go into detail. It was enough to learn that when those poor souls were brought here, they must have known that they were never going home.
‘Of course they may have been considered cowards, but in my experience half these poor fellows were literally not in their right minds, suffering from shell shock and the rest. I am sure you have heard of this? But what can an army do, in the cauldron of war? Discipline is the key to victory, and had it become understood that deserting was an easy way of escaping, then many more might have tried to follow.’ John Wilson’s voice was level, but Alice could see from the way he was holding himself even more stiffly than usual that he was working hard to hold his emotions in check.
She moved to Ruby’s side. ‘Imagine being locked up here, knowing you were probably going to be shot.’
‘I can hardly bear to think about it.’
*
Alice boarded the coach reluctantly, her feet heavy with disappointment. She’d felt closer to Sam here than at any time since he’d left all those years ago, and she needed more time here to find out why. But then, just as the coach began to pull away, a familiar red-haired figure ran across the square waving and the major asked the driver to stop.
‘Is American lady with you?’ Ginger called, as he pulled down the window. ‘I have news. Tubby Clayton comes in two days. Please can you tell?’
He turned to Alice. ‘I expect you heard that? I’m afraid it’ll be too late, if you were hoping to meet him.’
*
Back in Ostend, she went to the hotel bar and ordered a large glass of whisky. She’d grown fond of the spirit during her days in London, where Julia’s father had taken great pride in introducing them to the embassy’s extensive cellar. ‘A good malt is the sign of a civilised nation,’ he’d say. ‘All enlightened people should understand its subtleties. Have another.’
This Belgian version certainly wasn’t the best, but it slipped down surprisingly well. It was while drinking her second glass that it occurred to her, an idea so simple she almost laughed out loud. She would get a cab and return to Hoppestadt to meet this army chaplain. It was only a couple of hours away, after all.
She predicted stern resistance from the major, who would no doubt consider it improper for a woman to travel alone. Then she realised that the solution was right here, with her in this hotel. She would ask Ruby to come too. Surely he could not object if they had each other as chaperones? Hadn’t she wanted to spend more time at Tyne Cot to look for her dead husband? Alice was sure she could persuade her, especially if she offered to pay. And if not, then hang it all, she would go on her own no matter what the major said.
It would mean a change of plan for that other matter, of course – although, now she came to think of it, getting away from the group might make it easier. Besides, if her geography was correct, Hoppestadt was even closer to Lille than Ostend.
At the front desk, she asked to send a telegram: IN HOPPESTADT TOMORROW TUESDAY CAN WE MEET THERE INSTEAD STOP A
6
RUBY
For a few confusing moments, hovering midway between waking and dreaming, Ruby could not remember what time it was or even where she was. A sliver of daylight slipped through a gap in the curtains, so it could not yet be night time. Besides, she was still fully dressed, and lying on top of the quilted coverlet.
Then, in a flood of painful recollections, she realised that she was back in the tall-ceilinged hotel room in Ostend with its dark furniture, wall hangings and strange sausage-shaped pillow. And it was still only Monday, the day they had seen so many terrible things, the day she had felt certain that she would find Bertie’s grave, an opportunity she would now never have again.
Her mind wandered over the events of the afternoon, as the coach party left Hoppestadt for their return journey to Ostend through the battlefields. As they’d jolted along her gaze had drifted over the endless tracts of barren, shell-pocked land, punctuated only by twisted shards of rusting metal that had once been the deadly machinery of war, by writhing coils of barbed wire and dismal stands o
f blackened, broken trees. Mournful grey clouds hung heavily in the sky, freighted with rain. It was a landscape of nightmares. She longed for their view to return to normal, to feast her eyes on cows and sheep peacefully grazing, farmers setting the hay into stooks, women hanging out washing.
But they were not allowed to forget, not just yet.
‘On our way back to Ostend we will visit Tyne Cot, which is one of the largest war graveyards in Flanders,’ the major had announced as they left Hoppestadt. ‘Of course, you’ll have seen the crosses along the wayside. In the chaos of wartime, many were buried where they fell. The authorities are now planning formal burial grounds as a permanent memorial to those who gave their lives. There’s a commission working on these plans as we speak, trying to decide what the stones should have on them, whether it should be a Christian cross, or just the names, and so on. You might have read the letters in the press – feelings are running pretty high. But one thing’s certain, they are not going to bring them home and, hard as it might be for the families, I think that is the right decision. They died here, fighting for this piece of land together with their fellow men, so this is where their souls should rest. Tyne Cot has been identified as one of these permanent sites. Here are buried men of all nationalities who fought and died in one of the most costly battles of the war, the battle to capture the Passchendaele Ridge.’
Passchendaele. The word sliced like a blade. Where Bertie had gone missing. Although she knew that many thousands had never been identified, or even found, she’d heard that comrades would sometimes just place a simple stake in the ground, marking it with whatever came to hand. As the coach trundled onwards, closer and closer to this place, she found herself clasping her fists so tightly that the nails left marks in her palms.
‘Although many men gave their lives in this battle,’ the major was explaining, ‘the Germans pushed back and occupied the area until September 1918, when the Belgian army recaptured the ridge in the final push during the last weeks of the war.’
A tangle of emotions jangled in her head: excitement, anticipation and, above all, fear. Much as she knew that finding Bertie’s grave was important for herself and his family, she could not imagine, now that it was a real possibility, how she would cope with the reality, the finality of discovering where he lay, in the ground beneath her feet.
They’d seen plenty of roadside crosses and memorial stones on their way to Ypres, but nothing prepared her for the sight of Tyne Cot. As she gazed out at the thousands of wooden crosses stretched higgledy-piggledy across the field, way into the distance almost as far as the eye could see, the breath seemed to stop in her chest. Some were of smooth sanded timber, identified with expertly carved inscriptions or stamped metal plates. With a sick, chill fascination she also noticed that many were simply rough planks hastily hammered together with lettering scratched or burned onto the wood, with garlands of dried flowers tied to them, an identity tag, a belt buckle, an army cap.
The major led them forwards along a pathway of packed mud into the graveyard. Every now and again he would pause, straightening up a cross carefully and reverently, pushing it more firmly into the ground.
‘I know some of you may be looking for the graves of loved ones, and we have an hour now in which you can do so. Please take care of your footing, never stray from the pathways, or touch or take anything from the ground. There is still a danger of unexploded ordnance, or something personal which may lead to an identification. Either way, you must not touch. Do I make myself clear?’
Ruby wandered from cross to cross in a kind of trance, barely aware of time passing, reading the inscriptions and willing her eyes to see his name yet at the same time terrified of doing so. There seemed to be no order: officers lay next to infantrymen, regiments were all mixed together, there were French names, Belgian names, English names. All the differences imposed in life had been erased by death.
Smith, Merton, Bygrave, Freeman, Augustin, Travere, Marchant, Tailler, Brown, Peeters, Dubois, Janssens, Walter, Fellowes, Villeneuve. Perhaps some of these men had known Bertie, stood by his side in the trenches, shared their rations, spoken of their longing for home, for their sweethearts, wives, children? As she stumbled along the rows, gripped by a fierce determination to find her beloved, her eyes began to play tricks. Any name beginning with a B seemed to halt the blood in her veins. When she found a cross with the name Barton inscribed upon it, her knees threatened to buckle beneath her. But it was Michael Peter. Not Bertie.
If she looked long enough and hard enough she would find him, stand at his grave, tell him she loved him, ask for his forgiveness, and be able to live the rest of her life in peace. She could almost sense the relief of it already. And yet, the further she walked, the more that certainty began to waver. Many crosses bore only the simple inscription R.I.P., Known Unto God or, saddest of all, no mark whatsoever. So many thousands of individual, personal tragedies, so many of them anonymous; a visual representation of mass slaughter.
Keep breathing, just put one foot in front of another, she told herself. Hollander, Frost, Blundell, Taylor, Kelly, Schofield, Allen, Carter, Meredith, Brown, Pullen, Masters, Wade, Francis, McCauley, Titmuss, Archer . . . the parade of the lost went on and on.
And then, the worst shock of all, gripping at her heart like a vice: dozens of crosses with German names. Müller, Schulz, Schmidt, Schneider, Fischer, Weber, Becker, Wagner, Hoffmann, Koch, Bauer, Klein, Wolf, Schröder, Neumann, Braun, Zimmermann, Krüger, Hartmann, lying cheek by jowl with their enemies.
Had one of Bertie’s bullets killed the man now lying by his side? Had the shell they fired, shouting ‘For King and Country’, or hailing the Kaiser, blown to pieces the men now their neighbours in death? So many husbands, brothers and sons, all now gone. What an absurdity, such a terrible waste. And all for what? What further evidence could ever be needed of the futility of war? Far from making sense of it all, she was becoming more bewildered by the hour.
‘We’re going soon, Ruby.’ Alice’s call threw her into a panic.
They couldn’t leave, not yet, not until she had found Bertie. This was her only chance. She might never, for the rest of her life, have another opportunity. She must find his grave, to tell him she was sorry for not being a better wife, for not honouring his sacrifice, for continuing to live while his body lay in the ground in this desolate place, to ask for his forgiveness. She quickened her step. Tolbert, Frencham, Smith, Smith, Marks, Aaron, Middleton, Jacobs, Willems, Dupont . . .
‘Mrs Barton? I am afraid we must leave now.’ The major’s voice, from somewhere close behind, brought her feet to a halt. As she raised her gaze across the forest of crosses, far too many to count and certainly too many to check in a single hour, the darkest of sorrows seemed to suck the strength out of her. She felt sure she would be able to find him, if only she looked hard enough for a few more minutes, or perhaps an hour or two. But now, even though fate had brought her to the very place where he had died and where he might indeed be buried, her dearest wish would be denied.
She felt a hand cupping her elbow. ‘It’s time to leave,’ he said gently. ‘And it’s starting to rain.’
She hadn’t even noticed. ‘But I need to see his grave. What’s the point of coming all this way if I can’t find him?’
‘It is not always possible, Mrs Barton. You have to remember that more than one in four casualties were never identified.’
‘What do you mean, not identified?’ Even as the words left her lips she already knew the unpalatable answer: their bodies had been so badly mangled or blown into so many pieces that they were unrecognisable. But one in four? A quarter of all those thousands of men? The truth was unsayable. ‘So I’ll probably never find him?’ she managed, in a ragged whisper.
‘Never say never, Mrs Barton. But please take some comfort from understanding that although you cannot find a grave, your husband’s body will probably be here somewhere, if he died at Passchendaele. You may have been close to him without actually knowing it.’
It felt like cold comfort, but he was doing his best. She nodded, to please him. The pressure of his hand on her elbow increased and obediently, reluctantly, she followed him, legs moving automatically. Each step felt as though it was ripping her heart in two, and half of it would remain here forever in this gloomy place.
Alice was waiting for her outside the coach. ‘You look as though you’ve seen a ghost. Did you find anything?’
Ruby shook her head miserably. ‘Any one of those unmarked graves could be my Bertie. But how will I ever know?’
‘Bertie? Your brother? Your husband?’
‘My husband. Went missing in action here, at Passchendaele. Whatever can I tell them?’ she wailed.
‘Them?’
‘His parents. That’s why I’m here. They wanted me to come, to find him, or at least find his grave. How can I? It’s impossible.’
Alice put her hand on her arm and was about to speak, but Ruby moved away. Any sympathy would unravel her completely. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I just need to sit down.’
‘No problem,’ Alice replied. ‘Thought you might like these.’ She thrust into her hand a small bunch of wild flowers – poppies, ox-eye daisies and harebells. ‘Keep them safe, and press them into a book when you get back to the hotel. You can take them back to his parents and it will comfort them just to know where they come from.’
She took the flowers gratefully.
*
There was a knock on the bedroom door. ‘Ready for dinner, Rube?’
Ruby sat up, looking at her watch. It was already seven. Now she thought about it, she was really hungry.
‘You go on down. I’ll be with you in a few moments.’