George stared at Fred for a long moment. He looked out of place. He should be a clerk or something like that.
‘Why did you enlist, Fred?’
‘Why not?’ He didn’t look convinced by his own answer. ‘I thought that it would be the right thing to do. You probably think I’m not cut out for it.’
George stumbled over a reply. ‘No… no, that’s not what I—’
Fred cut George off. ‘And you would be just like everyone else. Everyone I’ve ever met thought I would amount to nothing, too weak and cowardly to be somebody. Well, I may need help from time to time, and I thank you for that, but I’m here to show them all that I can do this. You will see.’
George was impressed at Fred’s newfound assertiveness. Perhaps the army was already bringing something out in all of them, a confidence. Who was George to tell Fred that he couldn’t fight for his country? After all, wasn’t that why they were all here?
Still, something was unsettling George.
‘Just how old are you, Fred?’
Fred darted his head from side to side to see if anyone had overheard. He was almost shaking.
‘Why do you ask that?’ Fred said, putting more force into the entrenching tool and pulling a great lump of dirt out of the ground to deposit on one side. Sweat built up on his brow. ‘What’s age got to do with anything?’
George sympathised. ‘I was curious, Fred. You don’t seem that old. At least, not in a physical sense.’
‘Not as old as you, no, probably not.’ Again, he looked around. ‘Listen, don’t tell anyone will you?’
He didn’t say anymore, but his eyes bored into George’s.
‘Why would I tell anyone, Fred? What possible reason would I have? Least of all an officer. I wouldn’t want to lose anyone’s trust.’
‘Swear?’
‘What? Oh, fine. I swear I won’t tell anyone. No one cares, Fred. Look around us. If they did, they would have done something by now.’
‘I’m sixteen, George. Sixteen. I shouldn’t be here, but I want to be, all right? Don’t judge me, and don’t tell anyone else, I can do this. I don’t need any sympathy, and I don’t need a father figure.’ He carried on digging.
George almost laughed at the thought of him being a father figure to anyone. Then another thought struck him: he had been thinking of Fred as a boy all this time, as if he were a child, but they were almost the same age. They were about as different in physical stature as it was possible to be, but they were both young.
‘If it makes you feel any better, Fred…’ George considered the implications of telling Fred his age, but one wouldn’t tell on the other. ‘I’m just seventeen.’ George paused. ‘Seventeen last month, mind.’
‘You can’t be,’ Fred said. ‘Stop joking. I mean, look at you. You’re twice the size of me. ‘
‘That doesn’t mean anything, Fred. What’s size got to do with age?’
The other soldier already looked older in his estimation, as if some weight had been lifted off his young shoulders and brought George and him closer together.
‘I’m not telling you this to mock you. In a way, we’re both vulnerable.’
Fred scoffed and gestured at George, disagreeing.
‘What I mean is, well… we have to keep an eye out. To watch out for each other.’
‘What on earth do you think you are doing?’ A fresh voice cut into the conversation and they both turned, dislodging some of the freshly dug up soil. George stumbled in the moving mud, dropping his entrenching tool, but managed to regain his balance.
A Captain was striding towards them, a scowl etched over his raging features. He asked again, this time with less of a shout and more of a command. ‘What on earth are you doing? Stop right this instant.’
George was the first to react. ‘Sorry, sir. We only stopped for a second to catch our breath. We will carry on straight away… sir.’
The Captain’s face was turning an odd shade of purple.
‘That’s not what I meant, Private, and you know it!’
George didn’t know what to say. It appeared Fred didn’t either. George hazarded a guess. ‘Are we digging the trench incorrectly, sir?’
‘Are you trying to be funny, Private?’
The Captain looked even unhappier than before. George was at a loss as to why, but he thought it best to try and resolve the situation.
‘No, sir. Not at all, sir,’ he said, forcing a tone of complete honesty.
‘This is our training camp, Private!’
Realisation dawned. They weren’t digging the trench incorrectly, they were digging where they shouldn’t be.
‘I’m sorry, sir. The Corporal ordered us to dig this trench, sir. A punishment, sir,’ said Fred, before George had a chance to reply.
‘Punishment? By the sounds of it, you well deserve it. You should accept it without comment, Private.’
‘No harm was meant, sir.’ The situation had gone beyond George, but he still tried to appease the Captain. They had just given Campbell even more reason to dislike them. George and Fred would not hear the end of this.
‘I won’t have a word said about any officer in this army, or any NCO for that matter. You can finish your punishment by returning that soil to where you dug it from. This time, do it neatly. When I inspect it later I expect to see flat turf on top and no sign of your idiotic trench. Is that quite clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
The Captain marched off back the way he had come.
George turned to Fred and noticed a tear at his eye. Fred, wiped his face with the back of his sleeve, sighed and picked up his shovel.
‘Sorry, George,’ he said. ‘I should have kept my mouth shut.’
‘Don’t worry, Fred,’ George said, joining in with the effort of refilling the trench.
Life in the army wasn’t getting off to the start either of the boys would have wanted.
*
A series of wooden frames had been erected at one end of the field, like a hangman’s gallows. Filled sandbags were hung from the joists with thick white rope. George waited at the back of a line of three men, each from his section, as one after the other they ran at the sandbag. Each man roared, enjoying the sensation.
The bayonet was easy to attach in a hurry and slid neatly over the barrel of his Lee Enfield rifle, clicking into place. It made the weapon feel even heavier in his grip, but, lacking ammunition, it gave it a certain power.
He let out a cry as he ran. For what, he didn’t know, he was just caught up in the moment. It wasn’t even words, just meaningless vowels, as loud as his lungs would allow.
There was an art to bayonet drill. Like his sketches. One movement, then another, each following on from the last. Thrust, pull, repeat. If it was wrong, you were more likely to harm yourself than the sandbag. George was still bruised from the last time he had got it wrong. His gut had taken the butt of his rifle at full pelt. This time he stuck the blade in smoothly, aiming for the middle. The shock of the blow was heavy and he had to get used to it. It threatened to push him away, but he held fast to the rifle. He had been told that the last thing a soldier did was lose his rifle; always keep hold of it and you’ll have something with which to defend yourself.
The sandbag ripped along the seam and sand poured out. There was a whooping cheer from behind him. He didn’t turn to receive the praise, knowing that the next man in line would already be charging the sandbag. He jerked his blade free and moved aside.
The absurdity of the situation hit him. They had been training for months now, and they were assaulting a fake enemy with real weapons. Perhaps the army didn’t know what to do with them? There was no glory or honour in ripping open a bag of sand with a blade as long as his arm.
He much preferred firing drill. He was good at it too, only a few points away from getting his marksman’s badge. The mechanical motion of pulling the bolt back, aiming and squeezing the trigger had a purity of form that he enjoyed. He hoped when they were finally out in France that th
ey wouldn’t need their bayonets. He had yet to see it in practice, but ‘no one could get close to them’ was what the regulars often said about the rate of British fire. George wasn’t sure if they were merely bragging.
After drill, Campbell took them aside. He was unusually informal. He didn’t order them to form up in fours.
‘So as you bloody well know, I was roped into looking after you lot by command.’
There was no shouting, just an even, commanding voice.
‘No one else was bloody stupid enough to take the posting, see.’
He stopped and appraised them for a moment.
‘They’ve decided that there aren’t enough officers to go around. What was meant to be a temporary situation has become bloody permanent. Too many of you idiots signed up, see, and now they need someone to lead you.’
He marched through the groups of men as usual. Their eyes turned to him as he went. ‘What’s going on, Tom?’ George whispered.
‘I don’t know, lad,’ he said back, not nearly as quiet. ‘He’s not being his usual self. That’s for sure.’
‘Well, the Captain, he spoke to me this morning he did,’ the Corporal continued, either unaware of them or ignoring the infraction. They weren’t the only ones whispering under their breath. Campbell was playing up the suspense and enjoying it. He stopped in front of them again and stuck his noise up in the air.
‘He told me only this bloody morning, that I am to be made a Lance-Sergeant. That may sound to you like I am only a bloody acting-Sergeant, but it’s more than that, see. I will be in charge of this whole platoon. That means orders comes down from me, and you bloody well listen to them too, see?’
To call it a surprise would be to lie. As far as they could tell he had only joined the regiment so he could work his way up the ladder. It wasn’t unheard of for a non-commissioned officer to end up commissioned, but it took a long time. The Corporal was now one step closer. The Lance-Sergeant.
Officers were scarce. George had only seen the Captain a few times, when he gave them speeches. The rest of the time he kept to himself.
‘What this means is—’ Campbell hadn’t finished ‘—that we need someone to take command of this little section of wasted potential.’
He made eye contact with one of the men, then walked straight up to one of the others and stared at him. He then swept his gaze around again, then moved on to stare at someone else, getting as close as possible without touching. Every man just stood impassively, waiting for him to move on. Some men he lingered on for longer than others, some he missed out. George was one of the latter.
‘Now I know that some of you lot have been with us for a while,’ the Lance-Sergeant said. ‘But that’s not what I’m after.’
He carried on his pacing. George grew tired of standing still.
‘The man that will lead this section needs to have a good head.’ He stopped in front of one of the men, shook his head and moved on. ‘He needs to keep calm in the face of adversity, not to shy away from leadership, see. I’m not sure that there is such a man in this section.’
There were murmurs of dissent, and the Lance-Sergeant smiled a predatory, self-satisfied smile.
‘Perhaps I was wrong. Could it be there’s one of you that’s good enough to lead? One of you might think he wants to lead, but that’s not the same thing, see. Wanting does not get, only hard work and discipline gets. You’d have to be bloody stupid to think that just wanting to be an officer was good enough.’ He stopped pacing. ‘Who of you wants to be an officer?’
None of the men stirred, they just stared forward pretending to ignore him.
‘Good,’ he said, the smile back on his face. George felt uneasy, as if Campbell was about to attack.
‘You’re all learning, see. Now, which of you has a family history in the army? Whose wee daddies served before you ended up in this sorry excuse for a section?’
George put his hand up and felt a movement that indicated Tom had as well. It was a source of great pride that their fathers had served. It had also helped them settle in.
‘Hmmm,’ the Lance-Sergeant continued. ‘Right then, which of you pampered lot’s daddies weren’t officers? Who didn’t have that oh-so-wonderful privilege?’
Some of the men lowered their arms. He kept his up, the pain after exerting himself already burning down its length. He could drop at any moment.
‘If you’ve got your hand up, stay. The rest of you get out of my bloody sight, you’re dismissed.’ He barked the last word in his usual manner. He walked amongst them again, tutting to himself the whole time. He was still enjoying the spectacle, the feeling of power that he had over them.
‘No,’ he said, standing in front of one man. ‘You can go too.’
He moved on again, picking and choosing who would be given command of the section from the remaining men. Arms down, they were being dismissed one by one, until only a few remained.
If George was honest with himself, he wanted command. He wanted to earn a stripe, even if he hadn’t said so before. He wanted it, not because he wanted to be in charge of the other men, most of whom were his superiors in age, and not because he wanted any kind of power trip or responsibility, but because he felt he had something to prove. He wasn’t sure what he meant by that, it was an instinct. He had something to prove to Campbell, who had hated him from the start, and no doubt realised he was too young. He had something to prove to the others, including Tom, and even Fred, and he had something to prove to himself. However, what he had wanted to do most of all since the very beginning was to make his parents proud. Joe had made something of himself, but George had never progressed past being a dock hand. The army had offered a way out. He now earned a regular pay, his pay-book kept in his breast pocket like every other soldier. But a stripe would give him more. He had not expected his mother to take his signing up so badly, as both her brother and husband had served in the Boer War. He wanted to make her proud and show her that he could do this and do it well.
The man next to George slouched back to the billet, trying to keep his head raised, leaving behind Tom and a couple of others. Some men didn’t want the stripe, but others, like George, wanted it more than they could express.
The process reminded him of a cattle auction. The remaining men waiting to be picked by the farmer as his favourite and the rest being led off to slaughter.
The Lance-Sergeant stopped in front of Tom and stared at him for a long moment. George had no way of seeing what was in Campbell’s eyes, but he did see him move off again. At no point did he regard George, and George was growing ever more frustrated at the situation. He was nothing to the Lance-Sergeant. Campbell had hated him since his first day. He was playing with him. He stopped in front of them both, and finally looked at George. But just for a moment.
‘You,’ he said, holding out a hand for Tom to shake. ‘Well done, Lance-Corporal Adams, I’ve decided you’ve got what it takes to make a proper Lance-Corporal.’
George didn’t know what to think. At the last moment the Lance-Sergeant had got his hopes up, then dashed them just as easily.
‘Make sure you bloody prove me right, Lance-Corporal.’ He took a piece of chalk out of his webbing and drew a ‘V’ stripe on the arm of Tom’s khaki.
‘That’ll have to do for now, till we can get the quarter-bloke to sort out a proper bloody stripe,’ he said, before walking away without further ceremony. He called back over his shoulder, his Scottish dialect cutting through the ambient noise: ‘Now get the bloody hell out of here, you’re all dismissed.’
Tom turned to George, a grin plastered all over his face.
‘Did you see that?’ Tom said, already knowing the answer. ‘Tom Adams’ army is one step closer, hah.’
He patted George on the back as they walked towards the huts. A couple of the other soldiers said ‘Well done, lad,’ as they passed.
‘Lance-Corporal Adams. It has a nice ring to it,’ George said, trying out the sound.
‘I know, can yo
u believe it? I didn’t think he would make me a Lance-Corporal.’
‘I can.’ George did. He wasn’t surprised. He had always seen Tom as a leader, and in a way he had always been the leader of their little group. George wished it had been him, but he forced a smile. ‘Of course I can believe it. You’re Tom Adams.’ There was a touch of bitterness in his voice which he regretted immediately.
To his credit, Tom ignored it, flashing a grin at his friend again.
Chapter 16
Joe entered the office and went straight to work, smiling at everyone he passed. On his desk there was the usual pile of papers and notes he had accumulated during the week. A single white feather lay on top. He looked around the office. No one was looking in his direction. His stomach lurched. Where had it come from? Who could have put it there?
Who dared call him a coward? Many people had access to the offices. Anyone could have put it on his desk and he would not know who. Only two people, who weren’t family, knew his thoughts on the war, Mr Harlow and Anne. Would they think him a coward? Joe didn’t think he was a coward. Would they call him out this way, rather than speaking to him directly? Perhaps Anne had let slip to one of her friends by accident. Why here? Would they know where he worked? Had she told them that as well? His mind ran wild considering the possibilities. He hadn’t considered Anne the type. She was wiser than that. Even though she liked to ask questions, she was always seeking information, not giving it away. Although he had only known her a short time, he trusted her.
Perhaps it was Albert Barnes? Had he told someone about the article and asked them to get revenge? No, that was too far-fetched. Albert had only confronted him when he was about to ship out. Besides, this was too subtle for Barnes. It had to be someone else. Mr Harlow put things on Joe’s desk, but usually work. Mr Harlow or Anne. Neither were likely.
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