by Tim Atkinson
Fuller opens his mouth, then thinks better of whatever he had thought to say.
‘These poor buggers was here long before the likes of us appeared and decided to bring in a couple of thousand other folks to keep ’em company.’
‘’S’pose …’
‘Anyhow, lad.’ Jack takes out a folded piece of paper from his tunic pocket. ‘I’ve got good news for thee!’
‘Yeah?’ Fuller sounds unconvinced.
‘Look here …’ Jack points to the instructions Ingham has given him. ‘That’s our job. Plot Forty-five, Row G.’
‘What – where there’s a bloody great lump o’ concrete?’
‘You are kidding, aren’t you, Jacko?’
‘Never more serious.’ He tucks the paper back into his pocket. ‘That’s our job, right over there.’
‘But it’s a—’
‘It’s a blockhouse, aye. And we’re about to bury it.’
The ground in the distant corner of the cemetery falls away sharply. A nearby shell-hole has already turned this particular pillbox forty-five degrees; one half has already sunk beneath the mud.
‘Abandon ship!’ shouts Ocker.
‘Aye, she’s sinking fast.’
‘Too right.’
‘And we’re going to help it on its way by shovelling a few hundredweight of Belgian shit on top of it. So come on – let’s get cracking.’
‘Jeez, this job gets better by the hour,’ says Ocker. ‘Why can’t we do some bloody flower arranging like those guys at Remy was this morning?’
‘You’d not catch me doing that,’ Fuller says, bending to grab the handles of a wheelbarrow.
‘Really? Thought it’d have been right up your alley, mate.’
‘You’d think they’d have had enough of this shithole, wouldn’t you?’ Fuller goes on. ‘Think they’d know better than to come crawling back here to plant some pretty flowers.’
‘Have you tried finding a job back home, laddie?’ The sudden force with which Mac throws the shovels in the barrow Fuller is holding makes his knees buckle. ‘No – of course you haven’t. Because there aren’t any, that’s why.’
‘He’s right you know, lad,’ Jack says, picking up another wheelbarrow. ‘Why on earth do you think we’re all still out here digging graves, eh?’
‘Plenty o’ work back home for me,’ says Ocker. ‘Got thousands of sheep need shearing …’
‘Bet that’s not all the sheep’ll be getting, neither,’ Fuller sniggers.
‘Don’t mutter, Fuller,’ Ocker says, clipping him round the ear.
‘Ow!’
‘You know I don’t like it when I can’t hear what you’re saying. If you want to make some tame reference to sheep shagging or something then just come right out with it, OK?’
‘I didn’t mean … sorry.’
‘No, son, of course you didn’t mean it. You never do. You want to play the man but you don’t quite want anyone to hear the quips, not properly, just in case anyone gets shirty.’
‘Leave it, Ocker lad. We’ll have a little chat with him later.’
‘What?’
‘Just a few things me and the other lads need to discuss.’
‘Not wi’ me you ain’t,’ shouts Fuller.
‘Look, sonny boy.’ Ocker grabs him by the collar. ‘Seeing as Jacko here is protecting you from the pasting you so richly deserve, you little shit, the least you can do is tell us all about them little secrets Ingham trusts you with, eh?’
‘Secrets?’
‘You know – the ones the whole camp knows about.’
‘To say nowt about de Wulf.’
‘De who?’
‘Fatso. The bloke with all the big brown envelopes. Don’t pretend you don’t know what we’re on about.’
‘But I don’t!’
‘Later, lads.’ Mac holds a finger to his lips. ‘Look!’ He points to a group of pilgrims arriving at the cemetery – women in black hats picking their way along the muddy duckboards, men wearing black armbands and a few with medals on their chests. One of the party is carrying a wreath. Ocker nods as they pass. The others tip their hats as the ladies tread carefully between the graves.
‘Come on,’ Jack says once they’re out of earshot. ‘Best get this muck shifted. But no singing today, lads. Not with t’visitors so close.’
The men set to work digging a three-foot channel round the exposed corner of blockhouse, banking the soil and filling the void with successive wheelbarrow loads from the heaps left by the builders excavating the foundations for the boundary wall. The plan is to fill the hole and slowly level this sunken corner of the graveyard, burying the blockhouse into the bargain.
‘Excuse me?’
Jack removes his cap. ‘Begging your pardon, miss.’
‘I’m sorry to bother you, but my parents …’ The girl points up the hill to where the visitors are standing, a little way off. ‘They’re having a bit of trouble,’ she says. ‘We’re looking for my brother’s grave.’
‘You from Ozzie, miss?’ Ocker touches his cap.
‘Yes,’ the girl smiles. ‘We’ve come here from Melbourne.’
‘And not for the weather either, I’ll wager.’
‘No.’ She smiles and shivers. ‘We’ve come over to find my brother’s grave. We’ve got a letter. Here’ – the girl opens her handbag – ‘it’s from the Imperial War Graves Commission.’ She hands them a typed sheet of paper creased thin by the number of times it has been opened and read. ‘They sent a photograph too. My father’s got that – he’s using it to try and find the cross.’ Jack follows her gaze as the girl looks back to the group of women, huddled together like frightened birds, then across to a tall man striding over puddles and peering at the tin plates nailed to the wooden crosses. ‘Finding the right one is a nightmare.’ She looks down and sighs, then tries her best to smile again. ‘There are so many here, aren’t there?’
‘Aye, lass,’ Jack says. ‘Ocker, why don’t you give the lady a hand finding her brother?’
‘It would be my pleasure,’ says Ocker, putting down his shovel. ‘Right, miss,’ he says looking at the letter. ‘I can tell you straight away that you’re looking in the wrong place.’
‘Oh no!’ The girl looks horrified. ‘But they definitely said Tyne Cottage Cemetery. Look – it says here in the letter.’
‘No, miss. Sorry. You misunderstand. You’re in the right cemetery, just the wrong part of it. And, as you’ve already found out, it’s pretty big.’
‘Ye-es.’ She gives another nervous laugh. The two of them walk off along the duckboard path and the others get back to work, raising the level of the soil a load at a time until it slowly begins to cover the blockhouse roof.
‘Taking time, this, isn’t it?’ Mac says when they stop for a breather half an hour later.
‘Aye,’ Jack says, squinting into the low sun. ‘And so is Ocker. Looks like he’s giving ’em the full guided tour now.’
‘And this, ladies and gentlemen,’ Ocker is busy telling the group, ‘is the famous Tyne Cot.’
‘What?’ the man says. ‘This lump of concrete?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Why is it called … I mean, why Tyne Cot?’
‘Nickname given to it by the Northumbrian Fusiliers. They were the coves who first had a go at capturing it.’
‘But why did they call it that?’
‘Short for Tyne Cottage, miss,’ says Ocker. ‘Must’ve reminded them of home back in Newcastle-upon-Tyne I suppose.’ He laughs.
‘Have you ever been to Newcastle-upon-Tyne, son?’ The father narrows his eyes.
‘Not flamin’ likely,’ Ocker says. ‘And I never will if this is what the place looks like. Anyway, just for the record, folks, I should point out that it was the Aussies who made it here eventually. It was us that captured the place and took it from the Jerries.’
The man stands a little taller, smiles and turns briefly to his wife. The woman looks down, shaking her head. ‘Told you, Dee.’ H
e grips her hand a little tighter.
Jack leaves the others scattering grass seed on the thin layer of soil now covering the concrete roof of the German bunker and wanders across to see what is keeping Ocker.
‘I can’t quite tell if your friend is having us on,’ the girl whispers as Jack appears at her side.
‘Aye, well,’ Jack smiles. ‘It’s a good story.’
‘Not true, then?’
‘Probably not, no.’
‘Odd name, though,’ the girl says. ‘It seems a strange thing to call a German … what is it? Blockhouse?’
Jack pushes back his cap and scratches his head. ‘Aye, lass. We used to give names to ’em all. There was Cheddar Villa, t’Viking Ship, Goumier Farm … well, actually that one were built inside the farmhouse itself.’
‘I see,’ the girls says. ‘So why is this one called “Tyne Cot” then – if it isn’t to do with Tyneside?’
‘Truth is no one really knows,’ Jack says. ‘But I reckon it has more to do with what was here before t’war.’
‘There was something here before the war?’
‘Aye, lass. Though you wouldn’t think so looking at it now.’
‘No.’
‘And there weren’t much then, either. Just a few houses, the odd farm.’ He points to the spot where the man had been searching, but the road is now empty. ‘Matter o’ fact we met one of t’farmers earlier.’
‘Oh really?’
‘Aye. And locals,’ Jack goes on, ‘well – they reckon it comes from t’Flemish.’
‘Flemish?’
‘Aye, that’s what they speak round here.’
‘I thought they all spoke French.’
‘They do,’ Jack smiles. ‘Well, they used to. Still do, too, o’ course. When they have to.’
‘I still don’t understand,’ the girl shakes her head.
‘Well,’ Jack says. ‘It don’t much look like a chicken coop now—’
‘It most certainly does not!’ The girl laughs.
‘But that’s what they reckon was here, once. A t’Hinnekot – that’s the local lingo for a chicken coop.’
‘I think I prefer your friend’s version,’ the girl smiles.
Jack looks down at his boots. ‘Did you find your brother’s grave, lass?’
‘We did, thank you. Thanks to your comrade. I’m glad you could spare him, we’d have struggled to find the grave on our own.’
‘It’s not easy,’ Jack says. ‘Not now.’
‘There are so many of them, aren’t there?’
‘Aye.’
‘And all so neatly laid out.’ The girl looks up and down the field. ‘Well, apart from these.’ She turns to the handful of scattered graves east of the blockhouse. ‘Why aren’t these graves in rows like the others?’
‘They were buried where they fell, lass. Where a tree falls, there let it lie.’ The old lie, he thinks to himself.
‘But the others,’ the girl says. ‘They’re are all in such straight, neat rows.’
‘Aye, lass. But we don’t dig ’em up again unless we have to. That’s Army policy. Anyway there’s enough digging to be done without tidying these graves.’
‘So the others …’ She looks along the rows of wooden crosses, neatly spaced, and beyond to a dozen new, open graves dug with mathematical precision. ‘My brother …’
‘He was likely buried somewhere else shortly after t’battle where he was, er …’
‘Killed?’
‘Aye.’
‘You can say it, you know.’
‘Aye.’
‘So he was moved here afterwards?’
‘Aye.’
‘I had no idea,’ the girl says. ‘I don’t think my parents would be too keen to hear that, either.’
‘Don’t worry, lass. Ocker’s been keeping ’em entertained. But I’m afraid we’ve got work to do and I’m going to have to take your tour guide back. There’s a shovel with his name on it.’
‘Of course.’
‘Private Gilchrist?’
‘Jacko?’
Jack nods his head and Ocker jumps down from his perch on top of the central blockhouse. ‘Sorry, folks, duty calls.’
‘Listen, son.’ The man presses some money into Ocker’s hand. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’
‘Oh no, look—’
‘No, son – I insist.’ And the man closes Ocker’s fingers round the crumpled notes.
‘Nice work,’ says Jack as they wander back. ‘You could get a job doing that if you wanted. Mind you, you’d have to stop giving ’em that cock-and-bull tosh about t’Northumberland Fusiliers.’
‘It’s a good story, mate.’
‘Aye, but that’s all it is.’
‘You’re right. Anyway,’ Ocker says, ‘I reckon I’d be better off with sheep. They don’t go travelling halfway around the world to put flowers on a cobber’s grave.’
‘Or have such attractive sisters?’
Ocker smiles. ‘You’d get on well down under, mate, I reckon. You’ve sheared a few sheep in your time, I’ll wager.’
‘Aye, I have that.’
‘Thought so. There’s plenty out there, Jacko. Plenty of work for men like you down under. There’s loads to be done.’
‘Then why are you still here then, eh?’
‘I wish, Jacko, that I knew the answer to that question. And I also wish it wasn’t flamin’ true. Perhaps it isn’t. Perhaps it’s a dream?’
‘Well you can dream on if you think we’re going to pack up all your tools for ye, laddie.’ Mac says, handing Ocker back his shovel. ‘Come on – the sooner we get this done the sooner we can make our excuses and …’
‘… and quench our insatiable thirst. Good thinking, Mac!’
‘Come on, lad,’ Jack says to Fuller as the men begin to clear up. ‘You too.’
But for once, it isn’t the thought of a shovel, and of tidying after an afternoon of digging, that is making Fuller hesitate.
19
The truck rumbles along the Menin Road and through the gap in the medieval ramparts heading towards the Grote Markt, then comes to a halt beneath the shored-up remains of the ruined campanile. The walls of both the Cloth Hall and cathedral are now clad heavily in wooden buttresses and scaffolding. The shadows cast by the ruins are already lengthening.
Burying the remains of one of the smaller German pillboxes has taken the men longer than expected, and now, courtesy of Captain Harris, they have a crate of identification discs and other relics to deliver back to Remy HQ. Their visit to the British Tavern is already going to be shorter than expected. Then, just as Blake wrenches up the handbrake, the men come face to face with Lieutenant Ingham leaning up against a staff car, apparently waiting for them to arrive.
‘Oh, heck! Here’s trouble,’ Jack calls to the men in the back, quickly buttoning his tunic as he jumps down from the truck. ‘Get thinking of summat, quick!’ he shouts. ‘It’s Ingham.’
‘Ah, Patterson!’ Lieutenant Ingham strolls across, squeezing out a thin smile as he does. Jack stops, salutes as smartly as he can, then waits. ‘On your way back to Pop with Captain Harris’s box, are you?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Just thought you’d stop and admire the view here, did you?’
‘No, sir!’ Jack’s mind is racing. Then Blake jumps down from the cab with a lifeline.
‘Come on then, Jack – are you going to check those brakes for me or aren’t you? The men are almost passing out in the back of the wagon.’
‘Ah! Some trouble with the brakes, eh, Patterson?’
‘Oh, I am sorry, sir,’ Blake says, standing briefly to attention. ‘I didn’t see you there.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Jack winks at Blake. ‘Just, er … stopping to check ’em, sir. Felt a little slack coming down from the ridge, didn’t they, Blakey?’
‘Yes, well, quite,’ says Ingham. ‘Anyway, I thought I might find you here and I’ve been proved right, haven’t I?’ Ingham smiles, another frugal tightening of the
lips. ‘Sergeant Townend informed me you’d been sent to Tyne Cot for the day, and so I thought I’d save you the trouble of taking the crate they gave you back to camp.’
‘Sir?’
‘Yes. I’ve come to pick it up myself.’
‘Yes, sir. Very good, sir.’
‘Yes. And I, er … I’ll need one of the men to assist me, of course, as it’s bound to be rather heavy. Private Fuller?’
‘Yessir!’ The moment he hears his name spoken, Fuller is climbing out of the back of the truck and thanking the gods above for a narrow escape from whatever Jack and the men have been planning.
‘Dreadfully sorry to, er … well, deprive you of the spectacle of seeing Jack stripped to the waist and crawling underneath the truck.’ Ingham gives him a wink. ‘But needs must, I’m afraid.’ He points towards the car. The men hand Fuller the crate and he struggles across the cobbles to where the open-topped Ford is waiting.
‘Do hope you get those brakes fixed before too long.’ Ingham waves as he and the boy drive past.
‘Cheers, Blakey,’ Jack says as the car turns along Rijsel Straat. ‘I appreciate that.’
‘That’s all right, Jack. I’ll have to do penance for it, though.’
‘Sorry, lad. I’d buy you a drink,’ Jack smiles, ‘if you’d take one.’
‘Never mind that, Jacko.’ Ocker and the rest of the men jump down from the wagon. ‘Come on, mate. It’s your round.’
‘Och! They’re all the same, these Yorkshiremen,’ says Mac. ‘Short arms and deep pockets. It’s a well-known fact.’
‘Funny!’ Ocker says. ‘And I thought that was the Jocks.’
The men order their drinks and sit at one of many empty tables in the British Tavern. The only other customer is an old man hunched over an empty glass of Sint Bernardus. Katia isn’t at the bar, but Jack thinks better than to ask her father where she is. He believes he already knows the answer. It doesn’t matter. He’ll ask her what he wants to ask next time he sees her. And then he realises with a sudden, sharp ache, that he wants that to be very soon.
‘Jeez, pretty dead in here today, ain’t it?’ Ocker shouts. ‘Hey, patron! What’ve you done to kill off all your customers?’ The men stop in their tracks and stare at Ocker.
‘Oh, Jeez! Sorry, Jacko. Sorry, er … pardon, Monsieur Steenvan.’ Ocker bows his head then turns and sits down quickly. ‘Blimey, that was a close shave,’ he says, picking up his beer. ‘Think I got away with it, though.’