He didn’t know how many days it had been when the door opened again. He had thought that it would never reopen, that they would leave him there forever to starve and waste away. So, it came as a shock while he sat on the bed staring at the closed door yet again, that it opened up and in stepped a warder.
He wasn’t surprised to see that it was the kind warder who had brought him his prison uniform before, and who had taken him to eat. He looked down at Joe’s uneaten food and sighed, for Joe’s sake.
‘What have I told you about eating?’ he said. ‘I know the food’s not great, but you’ll need to eat something sooner or later.’
‘No,’ Joe replied, making sure that he looked the warder in the eye, and raising his voice as loud as he dared. ‘I’m on strike. You can tell the others that. I’m not eating until I’m released. Unlike some others, I’m not happy to just sit here and wait till the war is over. That’s not what this is about.’
He felt sorry for shouting at the kind warder, but what else could he do? The other man’s mouth hung open at Joe’s words, and he looked around to see if anyone had heard. He shushed Joe, coming closer to the pallet bed.
‘Look, I only came to bring you this.’ He handed Joe a sheet of paper and a pencil. ‘I can’t force you to eat, but if you write something on that, I’ll make sure it gets to your family. It’s the only thing I can do for you. As for the rest, well, I’m sorry but you’re on your own.’
He did genuinely appear sorry, and he sighed again as Joe stared at him.
‘Quickly,’ he said, gesturing to the pad. ‘You’ll have to write something now. I don’t know when and if I’ll be able to return. The other warders are already growing suspicious.’
Joe stared at the blank sheet in his hand. For once he had no idea what to write. On his desk at work he had paper after paper covered in words that he had written as easily as breathing, but now he was pushed he couldn’t think. Every word dripped out of his memory as if he had forgotten language altogether. What could he say? There was nothing new in his life, except for solitary confinement, and his family would only worry about him if he told them that.
He scribbled a quick note to Anne, telling her there were other conchies in the prison and suggesting she might write an article about it. He cursed his handwriting. When he wrote at pace, even he couldn’t read the words, and he hoped that those who received the letter would understand.
Next, he wrote to his mother telling her that he loved her with all his heart and that he would see her and his father soon. He said that he was sorry that he had caused them pain, and that he was sure the neighbours would forgive them soon.
Scribbling as fast as possible, whilst the warder hovered over him, he saved the last bit of paper for George. Again, he was unsure what to say. He couldn’t tell George anything that he had been through, that wouldn’t be fair on him. The only thing he could think to say was that he could not wait to see him again. Upon finishing, he folded the paper in half and passed it back to the warder.
‘Please make sure that gets to my family. They will know what to do with it.’
The warder nodded and made for the door.
‘I will try my best to help you again, but I can make no promises.’
‘Thank you,’ Joe said, as his stomach rumbled and he shivered at the same time.
The cell door banged shut, with a terrible, final waft of cool, outside air.
Chapter 38
George had been in France for over a year since his last and only leave. He had been granted permission to head home many times and have some rest from the war, but something had always come up. There always seemed to be another big push, where leave was cancelled, or another raid that he had to be on. There was even that one time when a member of his unit had been caught trying to smuggle German contraband out of the country and the entire unit’s leave had been cancelled. They had never forgiven him for that; many of them did it, but it was stupid to get caught. The man responsible had got quite a beating from those most affected by the cancelled leave, one that he wouldn’t forget, but at least he had kept quiet about it.
Most of the other men in George’s section had started to call him unlucky, and made sure that they weren’t scheduled to be on leave at the same time as him. Some of them even bartered for it, and he laughed at them for their superstition.
He wasn’t unlucky, he mused, sitting with his back against the wall of the dugout, absent-mindedly running the cigarette around his mouth. If luck even existed, he was the exact opposite. He was lucky. He was still alive. He had been through over two years of this war and he was still alive.
He grabbed his rifle from beside him and started cleaning it, first dismantling the firing mechanism and removing the bolt. One of the things that had kept him alive so long was having a well-maintained and always ready to fire weapon. The other thing, he supposed, was luck. Not that he believed in anything so fancy anymore. He had seen far too much pain and suffering to believe in any kind of higher power anymore. Those that had been disabled and maimed by the shelling and explosives were the truly unlucky ones.
He was the only one left of the lads from his school that had come out here. You might call that lucky. But then it could be the lucky ones were the ones that had seen the end of war. Wherever they were, their suffering was over. They were now at peace, Tom, Patrick, Harry, Fred, and the rest of them. There would never be an end to this war, not until they were all gone.
He reassembled his rifle and glanced along its sights, checking they were still true. He got up and searched for his haversack amongst the trench. He was due for leave, and this time they had assured him that he would be sent back to Liverpool for a few days to see his family, to see how they were getting on, and to discuss the things they had said in their letters. He was terrified. He was no longer terrified of the shelling, and warfare, but he was scared of going home. He hadn’t been there in so long, he had no idea what to expect. Last time had been an unhappy experience. His mother would end up crying again and he couldn’t handle that. His father would beam at him in pride. And his brother, well, that was another story. He had no idea what to say or even think about his brother anymore.
They would ask him questions about the war, about what it was like and he wouldn’t be able to answer. There was no way they could understand, it wasn’t their world, and Liverpool wasn’t his anymore. As horrifying as it was, the trench was his home now. The fleeting friendships he made with his fellow soldiers, that was family. His old family couldn’t, wouldn’t, understand.
He was walking along the trench , nodding at the men he passed, and keeping his head down in the constant bent-back posture that all experienced soldiers of the trench occupied. It was second nature now, he didn’t think about it. He was so experienced now, that the new soldiers all looked up to him as an older brother, as if he was anything but years younger than most of them. He might not have celebrated his last few birthdays, but in mental age he was much older than nineteen. He stroked the stripe on his arm. Age was no longer an indication of anything in this war.
A figure rushed in the opposite direction along the trench and George paid no attention, only to adjust his passage to allow the other man to pass, until he heard his name.
‘George… George… there you are,’ the other man said, panting for breath and now leaning with hands of his thighs. ‘I’ve been running around trying to find you. I thought you would be at the muster point, but someone said you were still here.’
His accent was softer than George’s, from somewhere in the south of England he guessed. The Corporal had found his way into their regiment through reinforcement after reinforcement, long cut off from his count-folk. He was around the same age as George, specks of blond bristles threatening to break out on his jaw, and he wore the grim expression that every soldier wore, never showing his teeth, lest they break up the grime of his face.
‘Here I am indeed,’ George said. He patted the other man on the arm. ‘What do you want,
Samuels?’
Samuels fought to catch his breath, doubled over and sucking in great draughts of air.
‘The Captain, sir… he… er.’ He took another deep breath. ‘He wants to see you… right away, sir.’
‘Where is he?’ George suspected he knew the answer, but it was always good to check. Some officers had a habit of inspecting the troops and trenches and could be a bugger to find when you needed them.
‘His dugout, sir,’ Samuels said, managing to talk. ‘He requested you there.’
It was a wonder this boy was so unfit. How did he expect to last in the army? Although it wasn’t like he’d had any choice in the matter. Had George been that unfit when he had signed up? He couldn’t remember, it had been so long ago now. Years, it seemed like.
‘Get yourself some rum, and for pity’s sake, sit down,’ he said, patting Samuels on the shoulder in the way a father might. ‘The Captain won’t need you for a while. I’ll go up and see him now. You just stay here and sort yourself out.’
Samuels started to protest, but George interrupted him.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll tell the Captain I ordered you to stay until I got back.’
He didn’t wait for a response, and left the private behind, walking along the trench towards the command dugout.
A few minutes later he pushed under the gas sheet, nodding to the adjutant as he did so. He hadn’t seen this man before, the last one must have been killed. The officers were often quick to replace their aides, taking another man out of the immediate firing line. Some of the men welcomed the job with open arms. George wasn’t sure that he would. They were often ridiculed for taking the easy way out, and for sometimes being too close to their officers. George much preferred the honest, working man’s nature of the trench.
The Captain sat behind his desk, as usual poring over pieces of paper, moving one piece to the side of the desk and then picking up another and shaking his head. He didn’t notice George come in, so George had to get his attention.
‘You called for me, sir,’ he said, whilst saluting.
‘Ah, Sergeant. Come in. Come in.’ He threw the papers to the side, no longer caring about them and looking up at George. He took off his spectacles and also placed them to one side. He rubbed his hand through his balding hair, then observed his hand for a moment as if he didn’t recognise it. He sighed and, reaching for a handkerchief, he wiped the sweat and grime from his hand.
‘Must I always tell you to sit down?’ he asked.
‘Regulation, sir.’ George stayed standing. What would they be without rules? Their old Corporal had drummed that into them enough that he would never forget it.
‘Yes, well, have a seat, Sergeant. I’m sick of craning my neck up at you.’
George took out the same old worn seat, the one that seemed to be reserved for visitors, and sat down, noticing a new creak in its frame. Where once he might have welcomed a seat, he found it very difficult to be at ease these days.
‘Thank you, sir,’ he said anyway.
The Captain took out his battered flask and filled himself a drink without saying a word to George or offering him any. It had become a kind of ritual in the few times that George had visited the Captain, and he suspected it was to allow the Captain time to gather his thoughts.
‘Private Samuels told me that you wanted to see me, sir.’
‘Yes, I did. He’s a good lad, young Samuels. Always happy to please.’
‘Only, I’m due to go on leave at any time, sir.’
The Captain stared at George for a long time, chewing his lip before speaking.
‘I’m sorry for having to do this to you again, George.’
George’s spirits dropped, and he looked down at the worn wooden table in front of him. He didn’t know whether to be upset, or relieved. He wasn’t surprised. As an NCO his time for leave often seemed to come at the most inappropriate times, right before another big assault.
‘I’m guessing then, that I don’t need to say what I’m about to say next, Corporal. I truly am sorry you won’t be going home to see your family. I will make sure that you are treated as a special case, just as soon as this assault is over. I’ll even drive you up to the coast myself if I have to.’
The Captain smiled a warm smile at George, with only a faint hint of sadness in the corner of his eyes. To see the Captain’s compassion made him feel a little better. For the first time in a while he didn’t feel alone out here.
The Captain stood up, took a glass from a nearby table and placed it in front of George. He unstoppered his flask and poured some of the golden amber liquid it contained out into the glass.
‘I don’t know if you drink, George, but now is as good a time as any to have a drink.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ he said. He smelt the liquid as it poured, and it burnt his nostrils, in a warm, pleasing way. It smelled of old wood.
‘It’s whisky, George. That one is one I keep for special occasions. It’s an Auchentoshan. Quite delightful.’ He sniffed the glass himself, took a sip and smacked his lips in appreciation. ‘One of my absolute favourites, but an absolute bugger to get hold of at the moment.
‘I must say. I don’t often share, especially as it’s so hard to come by. But you positively look as if you need a dram, or two for that matter. And no doubt you’ll need more after I tell you about the next assault we’re due on.’
‘I’m guessing HQ think that we will be able to break through at last, sir?’
‘Yes, well, don’t they always?’
George was taken aback by the Captain’s frankness. At first he had thought that the Captain felt sorry for him, but now he was beginning to feel that he was instead taking George into his confidence, that there was some grain of respect between Captain and Corporal.
He put his hand around the glass of whisky and stopped. The grime that coated his skin and surrounded his fingernails was a stark difference to the immaculate crystal of the glass, and he felt a complete fraud to be touching it. He suspected that the Captain would be offended if he refused the drink. It was too good to waste.
He picked it up from the table bringing it closer to his lips and stopped again. The Captain had moved back to his chair and was fiddling with his papers. George was relieved that he wasn’t watching. He wouldn’t notice the fact that George’s hand was shaking. He willed it to stop and that only made matters worse, as if the very act of concentration was causing the problem. He tried to forget about it but feared he would drop the expensive glass. All his pain, loss and lack of control was bundled up into his arm, and it threatened to overload. His nerves were on edge, and not because he was nervous of the Captain’s presence, but because he couldn’t take it anymore.
He almost threw the glass at his lips, wanting the shaking to stop. The liquid ran down his throat, warm and burning. He could feel it getting to work on his body and he started to feel warmer. The shaking in his hand subsided a little and he slammed the glass back on the table with more force than was necessary. The Captain took it as enjoyment of the drink and smiled at George, but in truth he couldn’t offset the taste against the burning sensation. The drink wasn’t for him.
‘I’d better get back to my men, sir.’
George wasn’t eager to be back in the trench, but the Captain’s manner was becoming more distant, and George didn’t want to be there anymore. The Captain’s behaviour was making George uncomfortable. He was staring into the middle distance, with his glass hanging limp in one hand, whilst his lips moved as if in conversation, but no sound came out.
In a world of discomforts, emotional discomfort could still get to him, and he longed for his own company, or at least the trench where all the men kept to themselves. His new rank had made that even more pronounced.
‘Hmmm, yes?’ the Captain said after some moments.
‘To prepare my men for the assault, sir. They’ll have to be made ready.’
‘Yes, you’re right. Of course.’
The Captain appeared as if he had onl
y just noticed that George was there and stood up abruptly, staring. He started pacing around the dugout, making use of the few metres of space that it afforded him.
‘You’re right, George. Of course. Get back to your men and get them ready for what may be.’ He stopped dead in his tracks and stared at George again. ‘You know, I’m not sure that I can go through with ordering men to their deaths again. It doesn’t seem right somehow, making them give up their lives for us.’
‘Every man out there, sir, knows what is at stake, and they know their duty.’
‘Of course, of course.’ The Captain threw an awkward, forced smile at George. ‘Make sure you look after them, Sergeant. Oh, and look after yourself.
‘You make sure you come and see me as soon as this is done and we’ll get you back to Blighty.’
George nodded. ‘I will, sir. Um, thank you.’
‘Oh, and send Samuels back when you’re done with him. I’ve got some more errands for him to run before we go.’
George saluted and pushed his way out of the dugout.
By the sounds of things, the Germans had increased their bombardment on the British lines. Other soldiers were rushing up and down the trench, keeping their heads down. One man ran past with his hand on the top of his steel helmet in case it should fall off. George always thought that had been weird. Why put your hand over something that was designed to protect you from harm? The trenches couldn’t destroy human instinct. Old habits die hard.
Goodbye for Now Page 37