Goodbye for Now

by M. J. Hollows

  ‘Get back!’ the Sergeant shouted repeatedly, waving so that the soldiers could see over the sound of the shelling. ‘Quick! Get back!’

  ‘Listen, George, Tom’ he said, quieter this time for their benefit only. ‘There’s nothing more we can bloody do here. This gas will kill us all if we stick around longer, and it’s the bloody devil to fight in anyway. What are you waiting for?’ The Sergeant grabbed George by the collar of his jacket and pulled him towards the communication trench. ‘Get back, you idiots!’

  George started running, Tom close at his heels. They didn’t stop to see if the Sergeant was following, his shouting was being drowned out by the increased shelling. Shells fell around them as they ran, and they had to dodge an explosion as it landed to the side of the communication trench. It threw wet soil over them, and the sound rang in their ears. Their khaki chafed and scratched at their skin, but still they ran. Behind them they could hear the sounds of gunfire. The Germans were attacking. Whoever was left in the trench would be cut to pieces. The call to fall back had been a good idea. George hoped that the Germans would only find an empty trench full of the dead. It would be a hollow victory.

  After the desperate run, the communication trench opened up into the perpendicular trench that, before mid-April, had been their previous front line. Other men were there, guarding the communication trench and awaiting any survivors. They waved George and Tom through as they got there.

  Back in safety behind the front lines the men were finding places to sit down and rest their tired legs. They were throwing bits of kit all over the place to cut down on some of the weight that pinned them down. The officers were already moving through the ranks and ordering men to stand to in case the German counter-attack made it this far. The Sergeant moved past George and disappeared off down the trench. Nothing could kill that old bastard, George thought.

  Tom spotted a rum bottle and grabbed it, hungrily filling his cup with water. The smell of the chlorine gas was still present in George’s nostrils, but he would wait to clean his mouth of it.

  He grabbed another soldier as he passed. The other man looked as they all did, covered in the muck and grime of the trench, with a faint hint of yellow around his sore eyes.

  ‘We’re looking for anyone from our section, can you help us out?’

  ‘I think some of your lot are over there.’ He pointed along towards a trench that ran perpendicular to the one they were standing in, a reserve trench. ‘I’d try them if I were you.’

  ‘Thanks, lad.’

  George stopped. He recognised the other man, but only from belonging to another section in the same company as them. He was in the same section as Fred, and George realised that he hadn’t seen the other boy since they went up Hill 60.

  He pulled the soldier back by the arm before he walked away.

  ‘Hey, lad. Do you know a Fred Madeley? I think he was in your section?’

  ‘Fred Madeley? Short guy? Very nervous?’

  George nodded. ‘That’s the one. Do you know where he is?’

  ‘Yeah, he caught it. Got blown up by a shell over near Wipers.’ He said it in such a matter-of-fact way, George was almost shocked. It was like he was reporting on the day’s weather in Ypres, or telling him that the sun rose in the east and set in the west. ‘Sorry, lad.’ He didn’t even look sad, or like he meant it. Fred was just another name to him. George let the other soldier go and he walked off, calling to his mates as he went, having already forgotten about George and Fred.

  George sat down on a pile of dirt by the side of the trench and rested his rifle between his knees.

  That was it then, another young life taken. George hadn’t known Fred well, but he would have called him a friend. He was innocent, the same age as George, but somehow seemed so very much younger. He had so much to prove. He was brave, George would give him that. He hadn’t deserved to die, none of them did.

  George shed a few tears for a friend he had hardy come to know. He had seen many men die now, but somehow this one hit him the hardest. How would his poor family feel when they read that inevitable letter that told them their son, their underage son, had died fighting over a small stretch of mud and shit? How could they possibly know what their son had been through?

  Chapter 21

  Mr Harlow was waiting for them when they got to the office, a fresh cigar pushed between his fat lips, the blue smoke curled around his head giving the impression of a white tonsure. Joe had never seen Mr Harlow with an almost finished cigar. He must swap them when he headed back into his office so as not to be seen without a fresh one. It may have been a mistake arriving together, but Mr Harlow didn’t seem to notice as he welcomed them.

  ‘So, how are you finding things, Miss Wallace? It’s been a few months now,’ he said with his sickly smile. ‘Anne.’ He cut her off before she could correct him, remembering.

  ‘Finest paper in Liverpool this is. Don’t let them Echo lot tell you otherwise. We’re right in the heart of the city here. Nothing passes us by.’ He took his cigar out of his mouth and puffed a big whiff of smoke. ‘Anyway, enough of that. I have a job for you.’

  ‘Oh?’ Joe said, excitement overcoming his usual quietness. Mr Harlow didn’t even look at him.

  ‘Yes, I think Anne has seen enough around here now. She needs to get out in the sunshine.’ He smiled again and, just like that, Joe’s excitement was crushed.

  ‘Anne, I want you to go down to Knowsley Hall. You know where it is?’

  Anne nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘The Earl of Derby has kindly agreed to an interview. I want you to go down there and get as much exclusive information about his pals’ battalions as possible. Can you do that?’

  ‘We could both go, Mr Harlow,’ Joe interrupted, relishing the chance to get close to Edward Stanley, the Earl of Derby, whom he had heard was against conscription. He gave Anne what he hoped was an apologetic look. ‘It’s a bit unfair to throw Anne in at the deep end. We could go together.’

  Mr Harlow just gave Joe a stare, the kind of stare that a mother might give a child that had asked for too much, then took his cigar out of his mouth, puffed a cloud of smoke and placed the cigar back between his lips.

  ‘I don’t think so, Joe,’ he said, and then he hesitated, perhaps searching for an excuse. ‘I need you here. Lots of editing to do.’

  ‘Mr Harlow. You know that’s not true. Why won’t you let me go?’

  Mr Harlow looked angry. Joe had never seen him angry before. His eyes darkened and his lips tightened.

  ‘Don’t push the matter, Joe. I like you, but I won’t stand for it.’ He sighed as if telling off a naughty child. Joe had no idea if Mr Harlow had children, but at this moment he very much suspected that he did. He was treating Joe like one of his children. He didn’t know whether to be offended or to be flattered that Mr Harlow might think of him in the same way as one of his own.

  ‘You know full well why you can’t go, Joe.’ He hadn’t yet finished having his say. ‘After that last stunt you pulled. I had that article on my desk when the owner came in. I had to make sure that he didn’t read a word. That would have caused a controversy. You might have lost your job.’

  Mr Harlow had forgotten all about Anne now, who was stood to one side, occasionally glancing at Joe.

  ‘No, it’s better if you stay here. Don’t want you embarrassing us in front of His Lordship, especially after all he has done for the war. I’ll let you write, Joe. Just stay away from the war.’

  That was exactly what Joe intended to do.

  ‘It was bad enough when Albert wrote that article,’ Mr Harlow said. ‘The owner almost had my neck, I should have read it properly before I sent it to press, but I managed to talk him round, which was lucky for me and for the rest of you.

  ‘Then he wanted me to do something about Albert. I said “What?” He said, “Sack the man, we can’t have any unpatriotic writers writing for the newspaper, it wouldn’t do.” Well, I didn’t want to, but he wouldn’t listen. I told
him it was a one-off but that wasn’t good enough.

  ‘I was all ready to do it, not that I’ve ever had to sack anyone before. But then Barnes himself came into the office and told me he was off. “I’m off to fight,” he said. Well, I was shocked. I asked him “What the hell was that article about then?” and he just got angry. Said he was going to do his bit and he wouldn’t be working at the paper anymore.

  ‘It was all damned off, I tell you. Why would someone who had written an article about the realities of war then go on to be one of the first to sign up?’

  Anne shot Joe a glance, but he kept silent. It was better for everyone involved that the truth remained unknown at the moment.

  ‘Can’t say I ever understood Albert much any way, but well, he’s gone now so there’s nothing that can be done.’

  Mr Harlow looked sad. His cigar had almost burnt down to his lips in the time that he had been talking, and now he drifted off into silence, staring into the middle ground.

  ‘I’ll run what I write by you when I get back, Joe. And you could give me some tips?’ Anne’s smile was so sweet that Joe could only nod in response.

  ‘Well, quite,’ Mr Harlow said.

  The mood had changed dramatically. Mr Harlow was known for wanting to be everyone’s friend, but he wasn’t usually so free with information as he had been just then. Joe felt guilty, and he knew that Anne thought he should tell him that it was he who had written the article, but what good would it serve? Mr Harlow was already angry with Joe for his proposed writing, telling him now wouldn’t make things any better for anyone. Joe had suspected a sadness in Mr Harlow towards the end of his tirade.

  ‘Mr Harlow?’ Joe said.

  ‘Hmm? Yes?’ He had drifted off into a world of his own and was staring into the middle distance until Joe had said his name.

  ‘Why are you telling us this, Mr Harlow?’ Joe asked. ‘Is there something on your mind?’

  Mr Harlow pulled out the chair from what had been Frank’s desk and sat down. He took a moment to compose himself, pulling heavily on his cigar and letting the smoke waft around his head. He seemed to enjoy breathing the smoke back in and smelling its foggy scent.

  ‘I’m not sure it’s my place to be telling you this,’ he said at long last, refusing to look at them, but rather staring at the ground. ‘I’ve had word from the war office.’

  ‘What is it?’ Joe pressed again, growing anxious for Mr Harlow to tell them what was wrong. He thought of his brother. All the things that might have happened to him flashed through his head. He didn’t know what he would do if any of them became reality.

  ‘It’s Albert,’ Mr Harlow whispered between clenched lips. ‘I’ve just seen his mother… he’s dead.’

  At first Joe felt relief, then as soon as that emotion hit him, he felt guilt for being glad about what could only be bad news for someone else. How selfish could he be? It was possible that Albert Barnes had a brother too, what of him? He certainly had parents, a mother at least. What grief would they be feeling for their son now?

  ‘That’s horrible,’ Anne said, filling the awkward gap of silence that had come about in Joe’s introspection. ‘Do you know what happened to him?’

  Mr Harlow coughed and ran a hand across his mouth, then his head shot up, as if noticing them for the first time. ‘Um?’ he said.

  Joe sat down next to him in an effort to try and bring them onto the same level.

  ‘What happened, Mr Harlow?’ he said. ‘My brother is in the same regiment. I need to know.’ He dreaded what Mr Harlow might say. What if they had come under attack?

  ‘They are?’ Mr Harlow asked. ‘I haven’t heard anything about your brother. They’re stationed somewhere near Ypres. Albert was shot by a sniper. They say he died well.’

  ‘My brother’s all right then.’ That was all Joe could think to say, and Anne looked at him. Mr Harlow sobbed a little to himself. He had never behaved like this before, and Joe didn’t know what to do. Anne tried to comfort him, putting her arms around his shoulder and made comforting sounds.

  ‘I’d always liked the lad,’ Mr Harlow said after a few silent moments. ‘Everyone is leaving. First it was Albert, then Frank. Soon it’ll only be me left. I’d go too, but I’m not fit. They wouldn’t have me.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter,’ Anne said. ‘We’re not leaving are we, Joe?’ She nodded at him, urging him to answer.

  ‘Er, no,’ he said. ‘We’re not.’

  ‘You?’ Mr Harlow said, looking up at them. He rubbed his sleeve across his face and started routing in the inside pocket of his jacket with the other hand. ‘Didn’t I give you some work to do?’

  His voice had returned to its usual gruff manner, wheezing out each word. His face took on a harsher appearance, the pink wrinkles flattening out as he forced himself to pretend that he had not been momentarily weakened. After a few seconds, he found what he had been searching for and pulled out a cigar. Lighting it, he puffed what must have been a reassuring cloud of smoke out. Happy that things were back to normal, he stood.

  ‘Do let me know how you get on with the Earl, won’t you, Miss Wallace?’ He turned to Joe. ‘And you had better get on with whatever it was you were supposed to be doing.’

  He walked away without waiting for either Anne or Joe to answer, and they looked at each other, bemused. Joe shrugged, he had worked for Mr Harlow for some time now, and he still didn’t understand the man. It seemed that his moods were as changeable as the weather.

  Mr Harlow spoke over his shoulder as he walked away. ‘Oh, and there’s no need to tell anyone about what I said about Albert. It’s no one’s business.’

  ‘I suppose that that’s my cue to leave,’ Anne said, before grabbing her coat from the stand and running out of the door.

  Before he could say anything, Joe was left on his own again. Albert would never be able to tell anyone about what Joe had done to the article, but now he didn’t care; something had to be done to stop any more young men dying.

  Chapter 22

  They spread out into the village, happy to be free of the confines of the trenches. George stretched his legs; it was good to walk at a brisk pace again. Doing so in the trench could get you killed, if not by an enemy bullet then by a landslide that buried you. It was a horrible way to go. He had got used to crouching most of the time, the sandbags not piled high enough to cover someone as tall as George. He stretched his back and it clicked, but it was a good click. It felt good to stand upright.

  They would need to find a billet. Other units were also being rotated from the front, and space would become limited. The first men out were always the first to get the good spots.

  The nearest village was not unusual. There were ruined buildings everywhere, and the fields and roads were torn up with the movement of troops and material. However, there were still signs of life. A few dirty villagers walked past; some wheeled carts of hay, others churns of milk, some just wondered without purpose. They were a stark contrast to the soldiers that traipsed past. The villagers observed them from the corner of their eyes.

  George’s mud-covered khaki made him stand out as a soldier fresh from the trenches. You couldn’t see the khaki underneath the thick, brown sludge. The itching from the lice that infested his uniform was so severe, that he would swear that others would be able to see them.

  The section stopped at a cottage. Half of its roof was missing and there were several dislodged bricks in the wall, but it would still make a good billet for someone. They had to take what they could get out here, and it was better than the foxholes in the trenches. Anywhere was better than the trenches, even a farm knee-deep in manure. Despite that, they still wanted to make sure that they got the best. It would make a difference going back into the line once their rotation was over. A few good nights’ sleep could buy you several extra hours of concentration on sentry duty, which in turn could save your life.

  ‘There’s room for four in here,’ the Sergeant shouted from the doorway. ‘Get on with it!’
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  The first four men of the section jumped at his command and ran to the cottage. Lucky bastards, George thought. If only he and Tom had been quicker, they might be sleeping under that roof tonight. They’d have to find somewhere else.

  ‘The rest of you are on your own,’ Campbell said, scowling in his usual manner before marching off into the distance between the villagers’ houses.

  Tom tapped George on the shoulder. ‘Quick, lad. We’d best hurry if we want to find anywhere good. Before this bunch of layabouts finally works out where they are.’ He pointed a thumb over his shoulder at the men behind him who were standing around, chatting amongst themselves. George stifled a laugh.

  ‘I can use my stripe to get us in somewhere nice, just wait and see.’

  Looking over their shoulders to see if they were being watched by the others, they walked off in the direction the Sergeant had gone. The road through the centre of the village was narrow. The gardens at the front of the cottages and houses had been cleared to allow heavy goods and artillery through at some point, and now tracks led through the grassy verges.

  After a few houses, a wider path led away from the village and up a small hill. To the right-hand side of the hill was a copse of trees, and on the other side were fences that suggested a farm.

  ‘Here, this way. Look,’ Tom said to George, grabbing his arm for a moment and dragging him along. They were careful not to run, doing so might scare any locals, or get a reprimand from a superior that saw them.

  One they had crested the hill they could see the entirety of the farm. The fields were ploughed in thick furrows down to the irrigation at the bottom of the hill, but there was little sign of crops growing. George had to admit he didn’t know much about farming, but he had become quite intimate with mud. The fields looked like the rest of northern France that he had seen, waterlogged, muddy and lifeless. The small ridges from the ploughing could almost be mistaken for little trenches.