The Glorious Dead

by Tim Atkinson

‘Jeez! That smile must hurt,’ Ocker starts humming, then singing, gradually getting louder as the major gets closer.

  It took a long time to get it hairy.

  Took a long time to grow.

  It took a long time to get it hairy,

  For the toothbrush hairs to show.

  Goodbye, Charlie Chaplin,

  Farewell, tufts of hair,

  It took a long long time to get it hairy,

  Now my top lip’s quite bare!

  ‘Expecting company, are we, sir?’ Major Rennard is at the back of the queue now. At the far end of the long Nissen hut – which tonight is doubling as temporary Officers’ Mess – the light of oil lamps casts a busy shadow. Orderlies are laying out a long wooden table with the regimental silverware. A candle in a bottle is placed in the middle of the red-and-white-checked tablecloth that the quartermaster must have scrounged from somewhere.

  ‘Yes, Private, as a matter of fact we are. A trainload of re-inforcements is arriving in the morning. Labour Company men, pioneers and so on. Men to help you chaps with the digging.’

  ‘Pardon me, sir – but you’re not getting out the silverware for them, are you?’

  ‘No, of course not. As a matter of fact Colonel Goodland will be arriving shortly and joining us in the Officers’ Mess,’ Rennard replies. ‘Well, he won’t be joining us in the Mess since the rather unfortunate conflagration there … But the colonel will be dining tonight as an honoured guest of the Battalion.’

  ‘Colonel Goodland?’

  ‘That’s right, Private – Colonel Goodland.’

  ‘In civvies, is he?’

  ‘What d’you mean “in civvies”, Private?’

  ‘Well,’ Ocker says, ‘there was this bloke sniffing round the cemetery we was working at this afternoon, sir, after Lieutenant Ingham had gone off for a bit with Fuller.’

  ‘Gone off … for a bit?’

  ‘Yeah, he does that all the time, sir.’

  Jack coughs theatrically. The noise and bustle of the Nissen hut seems to cease for a moment.

  ‘Anyway, sir, just thought that might’ve been the colonel, sir – you know, arrived early, like?’

  ‘That weren’t Colonel Goodland, yer daft bugger,’ Jack says.

  ‘Who was it then?’

  Major Rennard makes a move, but only as far as to fetch Ingham, reminding him loudly of his duty to ensure the comfort of the men under his command. ‘You go and talk to them, Ingham,’ Rennard tells him. ‘Damned if I can understand a word they’re saying. Something about Colonel Goodland at the concentration cemetery your platoon was working at earlier today. And some nonsense about you going off with Private Fuller?’

  ‘Leave this to me, sir.’

  ‘So who was it then?’ Mac joins the others in the queue. ‘Who was yon fella hanging about the cemetery earlier?’

  ‘Whoever it was, Private MacIntyre, I can assure you it most certainly would not have been Colonel Goodland.’ Ingham suddenly appears at Mac’s shoulder. ‘For a start, the colonel will be in uniform, naturally.’

  ‘So what’s the colonel after then, sir?’ says Ocker. ‘Planning another stunt for us, are they?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Well they know how much we miss the old days – being fired at and bombed and blown to bits and all that kind o’ thing.’

  ‘What is he “after”, Gilchrist? What is he “after”? I can assure you that the colonel isn’t “after” anything. He is paying us a courtesy visit to discuss the increasing overlap of our joint roles. Ultimately, it will be up to chaps like the colonel and the Imperial War Graves Commission to look after the cemeteries that we are creating.’

  ‘We, sir?’

  ‘He is also coming,’ Ingham goes on, ignoring the interruption, ‘to ask the CO if we have any recommendations to make as to suitable candidates for further service when the Army leaves and the Commission takes men on as part of its permanent staff.’

  ‘I need a recommendation, sir.’

  ‘Why’s that, Gilchrist?’

  ‘Need you to recommend me for my flamin’ demob, sir. Reckon you could ask the colonel to hurry it along for me, do you, sir?’

  ‘Watch your language, Private Gilchrist.’

  ‘Why? Demob a dirty word, is it, sir? We certainly don’t hear it often enough, not around here.’

  ‘I’m sure that your demobilisation will be dealt with through the usual channels.’ Ingham turns to leave.

  ‘Yes, sir, but I just thought as you and the colonel was having tucker together …’

  ‘That won’t be an appropriate subject for our discussion on this occasion, Gilchrist.’

  ‘It’s all right for you lot,’ Ocker calls as Ingham starts to walk away. ‘Couple of hours on a bloody cattle boat across the usual Channel and you’re back home again in Blighty with your hands inside some sheila’s stockings.’

  ‘Private Gilchrist!’

  ‘It’ll take me flamin’ weeks to get back down under!’

  ‘Colonel Goodland is a representative of the Imperial War Graves Commission!’ Ingham turns on his heels, and is suddenly marching back to where the men are standing in line. Struggling to keep his voice down he has now given up the effort and pretence of smiling. ‘He is coming to discuss the smooth handover of responsibility for the military cemeteries AND NOT YOUR BLOODY DEMOB!’

  ‘Oh yeah, mate? Sure he’s not coming here to discuss your little secret dealings with the locals, too?’

  ‘MATE? MATE? HOW DARE YOU!’

  ‘OK, I’m through with this.’ Ocker turns to leave. ‘I wasn’t bloody hungry anyway.’

  ‘PRIVATE GILCHRIST!’ Ingham’s face is turning crimson and his voice is rising to a pinched squeak of unconcealed anger. ‘How – bloody – DARE – you? Townend? SERGEANT TOWNEND!’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Put that man on a charge, will you? Right away.’

  ‘Really, sir?’

  ‘Yes, really, Sergeant Townend.’

  ‘On what grounds, sir?’

  ‘Insubordination, Sergeant. Gross – bloody – insubordination. I’ve had just about enough …’

  Townend leans in close to the officer’s ear. ‘Do you really think that’s a good idea, sir?’ he whispers. ‘What with the colonel due at any moment?’

  ‘Discipline, Sergeant Townend, is to be maintained at all costs. This is still the Army, after all. I’m sure the colonel …’

  ‘Yes, sir, but …’

  ‘And although there might no longer be a war on we must …’

  ‘Pardon me, sir, but we can’t really afford to lose any more men, can we? We’re hopelessly below strength as it is, sir. The coolies have either killed themselves or gone on strike, and if we lose another man we’re in trouble, sir. Even if he only gets twenty-four hours, sir. That’s a day lost.’

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose …’

  ‘And there’s hardly enough of us out here to do the job as it is, sir. And then the visitors from England is arriving all the time. And the state of some of the cemeteries, you’ve said it yourself, sir, well …’

  ‘I see your point, Sergeant.’

  ‘And, sir, Gilchrist, sir – whatever his faults, he ain’t no slacker, sir. In fact, he’s a bloody hard worker. Second only to Patterson, I reckon, in the soil-shifting department. And he don’t mind getting his hands dirty either, grubbing about in all them dirty, smelly bodies rummaging for the cold meat tickets. They reckon it’s ’cos he’s got no sense of smell, sir. Did you know he hasn’t got no sense of smell?’

  ‘You’ve made your point, Sergeant.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Very well then. I may overlook the matter on this occasion. But, Sergeant?’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Remind the men in this platoon that in future they are to address an officer only when either yourself or another NCO is present.’

  ‘Another NCO, sir?’ Townend scratches his head as Ingham walks away. ‘We haven’t got another NCO!’


  Colonel Goodland, a Canadian working for the Imperial War Graves Commission, is based at Longuenesse just outside St Omer, over the border in France. The eighteenth-century château, together with the remains of the military hospital, has served as HQ for the Graves Directorate and its civilian opposite number, the War Graves Commission, since the unit absorbed the Red Cross drawing office and moved from the forests of Hesdin in early 1919.

  ‘So what is it that your men want?’ the colonel asks over supper later that same evening. ‘Apart from more money.’

  ‘And women,’ Ingham adds with a grin. Major Rennard glares, his red face glistening in the candlelight.

  ‘I’m afraid the Commission can’t do anything about that, Captain. It’s not like the army with its maisons tolérées.’

  ‘It’s second lieutenant actually, Colonel.’

  Goodland nods. ‘I should’ve known.’

  ‘Well no, sir, of course, sir. I wasn’t suggesting …’ Ingham stammers, looking round the table.

  Captain Harris comes to Ingham’s rescue. ‘It’s merely another of the comforts of home that helps keep the men happy,’ he says.

  The colonel smiles. ‘You have a good team here, Major Rennard,’ he gestures to Harris. ‘I know the Graves Registration Unit that you’re working with has been impressed.’

  ‘That is credit, I suppose, to the work of Lieutenant Ingham and his clowns with spades and mattocks,’ Rennard reluctantly concedes. ‘Not proper soldiering, of course, all that digging. They’re sending some Labour Corps chaps over shortly and I was hoping …’

  ‘Hoping, Major Rennard?’

  ‘Well, I was wondering, perhaps, whether this lot …’ He waves a hand towards Ingham. ‘Whether they might be rebadged. You know, absorbed into the Labour Company.’

  ‘Leave the regiment, sir?’ gasps Ingham.

  ‘War’s over, Ingham. No point in pretending to be soldiers any more. And your men, well … they’re good at what they do, of course, but—’

  ‘My men are the best,’ says Ingham proudly. ‘Work like niggers, they do, sir, with ne’er a shirker among ’em.’

  ‘Yes, quite.’

  ‘Private Patterson is one of the best diggers in Flanders, sir, and there’s a capital chap we’ve been sent from the Australian Expeditionary Force who is second to none in terms of, er, well … getting his hands dirty.’

  ‘Getting his hands dirty?’

  ‘He, er … he’s the best man we’ve got for finding traces of a chap’s identity.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And there are others, too. Young Fuller. Skerritt – quiet chap, rather badly injured at Arras – and MacIntyre – MacIntyre was at Mons, sir!’

  ‘That’s good to know.’ Goodland nods and turns back to the CO. ‘I’ll be frank with you, Major Rennard. We’re going to need some of your men when it comes to the Army packing up and going home and the Commission taking over responsibility for the war cemeteries. That’s why I’m here.’

  ‘Can’t you get the men from Blighty? Plenty of men at home without a job, so I hear.’

  ‘Yes, but there simply isn’t the appetite for it back home. The Army Directorate of Graves Registration and Enquiries has barely five hundred men to call on at present. Even if they all stayed on after demob we wouldn’t have enough. There are still over one hundred thousand isolated graves to find and men to rebury. It’s an enormous task.’

  ‘Couldn’t we employ some local labour?’ Captain Harris suggests.

  ‘Not practical,’ says Goodland. ‘They’ve tried in France but the French can’t even find men for their own reconstruction work. I’m sure the same would apply here in Belgium.’

  ‘Quite,’ says Ingham. ‘And civilian labour from England?’

  ‘They’re doing what they can, but there’s a lot of opposition from farmers who are still short of agricultural men. Then there are building yards, factories, the railways. The Army has begun re-enlisting men but it’s a slow process. And meanwhile—’

  ‘Meanwhile visitors are arriving in ever larger numbers keen to pay their respects at the graves of their loved ones.’

  ‘Spot on, Ingham,’ he says, turning to the CO. ‘Fine brandy, by the way.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ says Rennard. ‘Courtesy of Ingham here, actually. He’s our mess orderly.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘An 1899 Hermitage Réaux.’

  ‘My word.’ Goodland raises his eyebrows. ‘And where did you manage to get hold of a bottle of that?’

  ‘Lieutenant Ingham has his sources.’ Rennard taps the side of his nose.

  ‘Well, I’d better not ask too many questions I suppose.’ Goodland takes another sip. The men sit in silence for a while. The candles in the officers’ mess flicker in the growing darkness. The camp is quiet now. Sentries have been posted and the remaining men stood down for the night. And as soon as they’re off duty most of the men can be found heading straight for the town like a group of energetic children freed from school. The quartermaster and Colonel Goodland’s driver are playing cards under an oil lamp in a tent. An owl hoots in the darkness.

  ‘You know, Colonel.’ Ingham swirls the clear brown liquid round the bowl of his brandy glass as cigars are passed round. ‘I sometimes wonder …’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘I sometimes wonder if it wouldn’t be a whole lot easier to ship all the bodies that we’re finding back to Blighty. It’s what so many of the relatives want, after all.’

  Goodland trims the end of his cigar, then leans towards the candle in the middle of the table, puffing the tobacco into life. ‘I’m sure I don’t need to remind you of the Adjutant-General’s decree from April 1915, do I, Ingham?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Rennard looks defiantly across the table, but Ingham refuses to catch his eye.

  ‘A wartime expedient, no doubt. Initiated on practical, no doubt, as well as hygiene grounds.’

  ‘But one still very much in force,’ Rennard glares.

  ‘Of course, sir,’ Ingham smiles.

  ‘That’s the way it is, Ingham. That’s the way it is to be.’

  ‘So the Commission believes that all men, irrespective of rank, are to be buried in the common cemeteries regardless of … family wishes?’

  ‘That’s right, Lieutenant,’ Goodland says. ‘The view of the Army Graves Directorate and the Imperial War Graves Commission is as one on the matter. Every man who laid down his life for King and Country is to be treated equally.’

  ‘But we’re not, though – are we, sir?’ Ingham is puffing through billowing clouds of tobacco smoke. ‘We’re not equal with the men. Therefore how could we possibly be treated equally?’

  ‘Equal in sacrifice, Lieutenant, equal in sacrifice. That’s the abiding message of the Commission. That’s what we stand for. These boys all made the same sacrifice; death is no different whether you’re an officer or a soldier in the ranks.’

  ‘Yes, of course, but—’

  ‘That’s the way they’re going to do things. And that’s the way most of the men we bury would have wanted it.’

  ‘But what about the families? What about the widows, orphans … grieving parents? What about what they want? There are families, Colonel Goodland – Canadian families, I need hardly remind you – who by dint of geography will in all probability never have a grave to visit or a stone at which to lay some flowers. Your countrymen and women, Colonel Goodland!’

  ‘So what is it you’re suggesting, Ingham?’ Major Rennard turns back, having had half an ear on the conversation while discussing the state of the horses with the veterinary MO. ‘That we go round digging men up and shipping them back home if someone in the family can afford to pay? Do you want to leave great gaps in the graveyards where those with money and influence have been able to secure the exhumation of a body?’

  ‘If it means laying a man to rest in the bosom of his family …’

  ‘These men ARE his family, Ingham, dammit!’ The CO splutters as he relights h
is cigar.

  ‘In war’ – Goodland leans across the table – ‘a man’s family is his regiment, his battalion, company, platoon. You ask these fellows and most of them would have said the same – if I die, I want to be buried with my men on the line I gave my life to defend. Don’t send me home; this is my home.’

  ‘Some corner of a foreign field, eh?’ adds Ingham. ‘That’s rather a romantic notion if you ask me.’

  ‘Romantic or not, Ingham, those are our orders.’ The CO wipes his mouth on his napkin.

  ‘I am aware,’ Goodland adds, ‘that certain … approaches have been made. Some families back home, people of wealth and influence …’ He stops and looks at Ingham for a moment. The Mess falls silent. Ingham swills the remaining brandy round his glass.

  ‘Of course …’ Ingham starts, but then thinks better of replying.

  ‘Of course?’

  ‘Of course those orders weren’t always strictly adhered to, sir, were they?’

  ‘If you’re referring to Lieutenant Gladstone of the Royal Welch Fusiliers, Ingham—’

  ‘One of many.’ Ingham stares into his glass.

  ‘One of a few, a very small number to have been—’

  ‘Captain John Liddell V.C.,’ Ingham interrupts. ‘Lieutenant Alan Leggett, Lieutenant Vernon James Austin …’

  ‘As I said, a small number of men, early in the war, to have been returned home at the request of relatives.’

  ‘Exactly, sir – home, to the land that bore them. And to the bosom of their families.’

  An orderly stokes the brazier, sending fresh gouts of smoke into the hut. A late train hisses in the railway sidings.

  ‘There really isn’t any more to say on the matter,’ Goodland says at last. ‘This isn’t some socialist plot to nationalise the dead, you know.’

  ‘No, sir. Nor would it appear a gracious concession to the solemn entreaties of King Priam, either.’

  Goodland frowns. The CO clears his throat then suddenly rises to his feet. ‘Gentlemen.’ He lifts his glass. Chairs scrape as officers stand as one to raise their glasses in response. ‘The King!’

  5

  Beside the old Ypres–Roulers railway, south of St Julien, the shattered relic of a copse called Wild Wood contains the remains of seventeen men killed in battle and buried hurriedly among the blackened stumps of trees. Over a year and a half later, little has changed. The splintered wood is still the only feature on an otherwise empty, bombed-out landscape. The Poelcapelle road fades to earth like a scar.